A stiff coldish wind was blowing soiled-looking ragged clouds and occasional gusts of chilly rain over a greyish winter sky. The men fidgeted in the ranks, some bending forward to ease the strain of straps, some throwing their packs a fraction higher with a jerk of their shoulders and loins; one or two had taken the regulation step forward and were adjusting their puttees or the fold in their trouser legs. Winterbourne stood with his weight on his right leg, holding the projecting barrel of his obsolete drill rifle loosely in his right hand; his head was bent slightly forward as he gazed at the gravel expressionlessly. The draft had been parading for various purposes all through the day, when they thought they would be free to idle and write letters. The canteen had been put out of bounds to prevent a possible drunken departure. The parades had included two kit inspections and several visits to the Quartermaster’s Stores to draw new winter clothing and other objects for use overseas. Consequently, in their mood of restrained excitement, they had become rather irritated and impatient. The fidgeting increased under the reproving gaze of the N.C.O.’s, and the rather boiled-looking glare of the Regimental Sergeant-Major, a military pedant of exacting standards; nothing, however, was said, since movement is permitted at the “stand easy.” The mood of the draft was not improved by a sudden flurry of cold rain, which swept across the parade-ground in a long moaning gust, at the moment when three or four officers came out of their Mess. “Draft!” came the R.S.M.’s warning bellow. The hundred and twenty hands slipped automatically down the rifles, and the men stood silent and motionless, looking to the front, and trying not to sway when the pressure of the rising gale suddenly increased or suddenly relaxed. “Stand still there! Stand _Steady!_” There was a slight bulge in the front of each of the short service-jackets, where two field dressings in a waterproof case and a phial of iodine had been thrust into the pocket provided for them, inside the right-hand flap. “Draft!—Draft! ’Ten’shun!” Two hundred and forty heels met smartly in one collective snap at the same time that the rifles were sharply brought to the sides. The draft stood to attention, gazing fixedly to the front. A man unconsciously turned his head slightly in trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching officers out of the corner of his eye. “Stand still that man! Look to your front, can’t you?” Silence, except for the moaning wind and the crunch of gravel under the officers’ boots. The Colonel and the Adjutant wore spurs, which jingled very slightly. The Colonel acknowledged the R.S.M.’s salute and his “All present and c’rect, Sir.” “Rear rank—one pace step back—March!” One—two. The hundred and twenty legs moved mechanically like one man’s. “Rear rank—stand—at—ease!”