"Double march," roared Dick to the remainder again. When he had almost pumped the last breath out of their bodies he gave the halt, then—"Stand at ease." "Wipe your sweat off, and then we’ll try the slope again." Gladly they mopped their brows. When finished, the old sergeant ordered, "Slope—arms." Every rifle went bang on to the shoulder with a precision that was truly amazing. "That’s the way. You can do it when you like. Now, Present—arms." This had its faults. "Keep your stomachs in—it’s corsets you want. And grip your guns. They ain’t dynamite. Just think it’s a beer pot. No laughing, Muldoon, or I’ll clap you in with O’Riley." "I couldn’t help——" "Silence! Who ever heard of talking in the ranks? Company—Slope—arms. By the right—Quick march." "By the right! By the right! Don’t wobble like ducks in a mud-pond. Hold your heads up—swing your arms—stick out your measly chests, and march. Steady now! About—turn. One—two—three—four—Step out—you’re not at O’Riley’s funeral yet. Right—form. Come round like one man. Keep back, Tamson, it’s not dinner-time yet." "I weesh it wis," whispered Tamson. "Squad—Halt! Stand at—ease," concluded Fiery Dick. "Now you section commanders march off your sections. Slip it across them. If they look sideways, double them till their wind-bags burst." The sergeants gladly complied, for they were itching to emulate the style of their worthy "Flag," as the colour-sergeant is known in the Service. When sufficiently apart, the din commenced. "Left—right—left—haud up yer heids—oot wi’ yer chists—eyes aff the grun, there’s nae money there," piped Sergeant Greegor, the sprightly commander of No. 1 section. His colleagues followed suit, much to the amusement of Captain Coronet and his Subs (Lieutenants Greens and Briefs), who quietly observed all from a corner of the drill-ground. This section drill went on for a week. At the conclusion, the company commander and his subalterns fell to and instructed them in company drill. The methods of these gentlemen were of the polite order. Their adjectives had not the strong flavour of Fiery Dick’s. Indeed, their treatment was much too ladylike in the opinion of the sergeants. However, these trusty henchmen kept the scallywags in order. If they stumbled, mumbled, or jumbled when on parade, a quiet dig with a boot mended matters. Having polished the eight companies into shape and order, Colonel Corkleg and his adjutant decided on battalion drill. Battallion drill under such a colonel was a treat. He was a martinet, and could drill a regiment like a Guardsman. "Battalion reported present, sir," announced the adjutant on the first parade. "Thank you," said the colonel, clearing his throat, and viewing a thousand expectant souls. "Battalion—what’s all the moving now? When I say ’Battalion,’ every man should stand still and wait for the next word of command. Who’s that moving about on the right of Number Eight? Sergeant-Major." "Yes, sir."