“Very decently indeed. I’ve complimented their C.O. and buttered the whole boiling.” He lowered his voice. “As a matter o’ fact, I halted five good minutes to give ’em time to get into position.” “Well, now we can inspect our Foreign Service corps. We sha’n’t need the men for an hour, Vee.” “Very good, Sir. Colour-sergeants!” cried Verschoyle, raising his voice, and the cry ran from company to company. Whereupon the officers left their men, people began to climb over the railings, and the regiment dissolved among the spectators and the school corps of the city. “No sense keeping men standing when you don’t need ’em,” said Bayley. “Besides, the Schools learn more from our chaps in an afternoon than they can pick up in a month’s drill. Look at those Board-schoolmaster captains buttonholing old Purvis on the art of war!” “Wonder what the evening papers’ll say about this,” said Pigeon. “You’ll know in half an hour,” Burgard laughed. “What possessed you to take your ponies across the sand-pits, Pij?” “Pride. Silly pride,” said the Canadian. We crossed the common to a very regulation paradeground overlooked by a statue of our Queen. Here were carriages, many and elegant, filled with pretty women, and the railings were lined with frockcoats and top hats. “This is distinctly social,” I suggested to Kyd. “Ra-ather. Our F.S. corps is nothing if not correct, but Bayley’ll sweat ’em all the same.” I saw six companies drawn up for inspection behind lines of long sausage-shaped kit-bags. A band welcomed us with “A Life on the Ocean Wave.” “What cheek!” muttered Verschoyle. “Give ’em beans, Bayley.” “I intend to,” said the Colonel, grimly. “Will each of you fellows take a company, please, and inspect ’em faithfully. ‘_En état de partir_’ is their little boast, remember. When you’ve finished you can give ’em a little pillow-fighting.” “What does the single cannon on those men’s sleeves mean?” I asked. “That they’re big gun-men, who’ve done time with the Fleet,” Bayley returned. “Any F.S. corps that has over twenty per cent big-gun men thinks itself entitled to play ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’—when it’s out of hearing of the Navy.” “What beautiful stuff they are! What’s their regimental average?” “It ought to be five eight, height, thirty-eight, chest, and twenty-four years, age. What is it?” Bayley asked of a Private. “Five nine and half, Sir, thirty-nine, twenty-four and a half,” was the reply, and he added insolently, “_En état de partir_.” Evidently that F.S. corps was on its mettle ready for the worst. “What about their musketry average?” I went on. “Not my pidgin,” said Bayley. “But they wouldn’t be in the corps a day if they couldn’t shoot; I know _that_ much. Now I’m going to go through ’em for socks and slippers.”