“Lucky beggar!” said Noel enviously. “I wish we were off to the front. Greg and I are as fit as any man in the First, and I’ll bet you we’d knock spots off most of them in the shooting line, eh, Greg?” “And what are you playing at all day?” “Oh, mouching about Head-Quarters while the Hossifers change their minds as to what we should do. There’s a fearful lot of mouching about in this business.” “Worse than Throgmorton Street,” said Gregor. “To-day we did a route march to Richmond Park. Jolly hot it was too, and some of the fellows had about as much as they could stick. Greg and I didn’t turn a hair. By the way,”--to the girls,--“you remember us telling you of the old lady who comes out on to her balcony every time we go out Putney way, and waves a black cardboard cat to us for luck? She was there again to-day, waving away like a jolly old windmill, and we gave her a cheer that did her heart good, I bet.” “Dear old thing!” said Honor. “Perhaps she’s got someone in the battalion.” “I don’t know. But she’s undoubtedly gone on us.” “I don’t see why,” said Vic critically. “Any news of uniforms yet?” “On the contrary,” laughed Gregor, with quiet enjoyment. “Some of the fellows in the First Battalion, who couldn’t go abroad for one reason or another and so have been put back into the Second, have had to give up theirs to fellows in the First who were short, and they’re as mad as bears at having to tramp in civvies. Dear knows when we’ll all get fitted out.” “Oh well,” chimed in Noel, “I’d sooner wear my own things than go about like a convict in blue serge, as some of Kitchener’s poor beggars have to.” “Yes, they do look rotten.” “Feel rotten, too, you bet. If they put me in convict dress I’d feel like chucking the whole thing.” “Kilt before country!” suggested Vic ironically. “Not a bit. Kill’t for one’s country, if you like, so long as it’s in a kilt. But I can tell you it makes a difference to your feelings--padding along like an out-of-work procession, with every kind of coat and cap that ever was made. Makes one feel like a rotten old jumble sale.” “You’ll get your togs in time,” said Ray. “The great thing is to have the man that’s to go inside them fit and well.” “Well, we’re all that anyway. We’ve been route-marching ourselves and potting clay-pigeons for a month past.”