“How many corps are there here?” I asked. “Oh, bits of lots of ’em—thirty or forty, p’r’aps, Sir. But the whistles says they’ve all got to rally on the Board Schools. ’Ark! There’s the whistle for the Private Schools! They’ve been called up the ground at the double.” “Stop!” cried a bearded man with a watch, and the crews dropped beside the breech wiping their brows and panting. “Hullo! there’s some attack on the Schools,” said one. “Well, Marden, you owe me three half-crowns. I’ve beaten your record. Pay up.” The boy beside us tapped his foot fretfully as he eyed his companions melting among the hillocks, but the gun-team adjusted their bets without once looking up. The ground rose a little to a furze-crowned ridge in the centre so that I could not see the full length of it, but I heard a faint bubble of blank in the distance. “The Saturday allowance,” murmured Bayley. “War’s begun, but it wouldn’t be etiquette for us to interfere. What are you saying, my child?” “Nothin’, Sir, only—only I don’t think the Guard will be able to come through on so narrer a front, Sir. They’ll all be jammed up be’ind the ridge if _we_’ve got there in time. It’s awful sticky for guns at the end of our ground, Sir.” “I’m inclined to think you’re right, Moltke. The Guard is hung up: distinctly so. Old Vee will have to cut his way through. What a pernicious amount of blank the kids seem to have!” It was quite a respectable roar of battle that rolled among the hillocks for ten minutes, always out of our sight. Then we heard the “Cease Fire” over the ridge. “They’ve sent for the Umpires,” the Board School boy squeaked, dancing on one foot. “You’ve been hung up, Sir. I—I thought the sand-pits ’ud stop you.” Said one of the jerseyed hobbledehoys at the gun, slipping on his coat: “Well, that’s enough for this afternoon. I’m off,” and moved to the railings without even glancing towards the fray. “I anticipate the worst,” said Bayley with gravity after a few minutes. “Hullo! Here comes my disgraced corps!” The Guard was pouring over the ridge—a disorderly mob—horse, foot, and guns mixed, while from every hollow of the ground about rose small boys cheering shrilly. The outcry was taken up by the parents at the railings, and spread to a complete circle of cheers, handclappings, and waved handkerchiefs. Our Eighth District private cast away restraint and openly capered. “We got ’em! We got ’em!” he squealed. The grey-green flood paused a fraction of a minute and drew itself into shape, coming to rest before Bayley. Verschoyle saluted. “Vee, Vee,” said Bayley. “Give me back my legions. Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself?” “The little beasts were ready for us. Deuced well posted too,” Verschoyle replied. “I wish you’d seen that first attack on our flank. Rather impressive. Who warned ’em?” “I don’t know. I got my information from a baby in blue plush breeches. Did they do well?”