“That beats me again.” The Sergeant spoke fretfully. “I go to the ’Ead an’ ’e gives me no help. There’s times when I think he’s makin’ fun o’ me. I’ve never been a Volunteer-sergeant, thank God--but I’ve always had the consideration to pity ’em. I’m glad o’ that.” “I’d like to see ’em,” said Keyte. “From your statements, Sergeant, I can’t get at what they’re after.” “Don’t ask me, Major! Ask that freckle-faced young Corkran. He’s their generalissimo.” One does not refuse a warrior of Sobraon, or deny the only pastry-cook within bounds. So Keyte came, by invitation, leaning upon a stick, tremulous with old age, to sit in a corner and watch. “They shape well. They shape uncommon well,” he whispered between evolutions. “Oh, _this_ isn’t what they’re after. Wait till I dismiss ’em.” At the “break-off” the ranks stood fast. Perowne fell out, faced them, and, refreshing his memory by glimpses at a red-bound, metal-clasped book, drilled them for ten minutes. (This is that Perowne who was shot in Equatorial Africa by his own men.) Ansell followed him, and Hogan followed Ansell. All three were implicitly obeyed. Then Stalky laid aside his Snider, and, drawing a long breath, favored the company with a blast of withering invective. “’Old ’ard, Muster Corkran. That ain’t in any drill,” cried Foxy. “All right, Sergeant. You never know what you may have to say to your men.--For pity’s sake, try to stand up without leanin’ against each other, you blear-eyed, herrin’-gutted gutter-snipes. It’s no pleasure to me to comb you out. That ought to have been done before you came here, you--you militia broom-stealers.” “The old touch--the old touch. _We_ know it,” said Keyte, wiping his rheumy eyes. “But where did he pick it up?” “From his father--or his uncle. Don’t ask me! Half of ’em must have been born within earshot o’ the barracks.” (Foxy was not far wrong in his guess.) “I’ve heard more back-talk since this volunteerin’ nonsense began than I’ve heard in a year in the service.” “There’s a rear-rank man lookin’ as though his belly were in the pawn-shop. Yes, you, Private Ansell,” and Stalky tongue-lashed the victim for three minutes, in gross and in detail. “Hullo!” He returned to his normal tone. “First blood to me. You flushed, Ansell. You wriggled.” “Couldn’t help flushing,” was the answer. “Don’t think I wriggled, though.” “Well, it’s your turn now.” Stalky resumed his place in the ranks. “Lord, Lord! It’s as good as a play,” chuckled the attentive Keyte. Ansell, too, had been blessed with relatives in the service, and slowly, in a lazy drawl--his style was more reflective than Stalky’s--descended the abysmal depths of personality. “Blood to me!” he shouted triumphantly. “You couldn’t stand it, either.” Stalky was a rich red, and his Snider shook visibly. “I didn’t think I would,” he said, struggling for composure, “but after a bit I got in no end of a bait. Curious, ain’t it?”