The draft confusedly moved over the darkened ground to the barrack room, chattering excitedly: “What’s the next thing?” “P’rade at eight-thirty to move off at nine.” “Who said so?” “It’s in B’tallion orders.” “Silly ole mucker old Brandon is, give me the fair pip he did with ’is ‘walk about soldierly’—yes! up to yer arse in mud.” “Bloody old _c_——” “Yes, but the Adjutant was all right.” “Oh, ’e’s a gentleman, ’e is.” “Makes all the difference when they’ve bin in the ranks theirselves.” “Wonder what it’ll be like in the line?” “Wait till y’get there and see.” “I reckon we’ll be there this time to-morrow night.” “Shut up, Larkin, and don’t get the wind up.” “I ain’t got the wind up.” “I say, Corporal, Corp’ral! What time do we p’rade to-night?” “Ask the Ord’ly Sergeant.” “Tea’s up, boys. Come on!” * * * * * They fell in again at eight-thirty. The night was very dark, with a cold damp gusty wind from the west. All the N.C.O.’s were on parade, carrying lighted hurricane lanterns which moved and flitted and stood still in the darkness like will-o’-the-wisps. The draft were in full marching order, without rifles and side-arms, wearing their greatcoats. Their excitement occasionally broke through the military restraint and rose from a whisper to a loud hum, which would cringe abruptly under the R.S.M.’s “Stop talking there!” It took a long time to read the roll-call by the flicker of the lantern. At the sound of his name each man clicked his heels, “Here, Sir.” “31819, Winterbourne, G.” “Here, Sir.” “That’s the lot, Ser’ant-Major, isn’t it?” “That’s the lot, Sir.” “Move off in five minutes.” “Very good, Sir.” The draft stirred restlessly in the darkness. Winterbourne looked to his left and noticed how the line of shadowy figures disappeared into the night—he might have been at one end of a line stretching to infinity for all he could see. “Draft! Draft! ’Ten’shun! Slope arms! Move to the right in column of fours—form fours! Form two deep! Form fours! Right! By the right—Quick March!” They found themselves immediately behind the regimental band, which struck up one of the Mark III marches supplied to Army musicians. The draft knew it well—“How can I draw rations—if I’m not the ord’ly man?” They marched over the familiar parade ground, out through the postern, over the swaying draw-bridge, where the sentry presented arms. “By the left. March at—ease. March easy.”