The kit-inspection exceeded anything I had ever dreamed. I drifted from company to company while the Guard officers oppressed them. Twenty per cent, at least, of the kits were shovelled out on the grass and gone through in detail. “What have they got jumpers and ducks for?” I asked of Harrison. “For Fleet work, of course. _En état de partir_ with an F. S. corps means they are amphibious.” “Who gives ’em their kit—Government?” “There is a Government allowance, but no C. O. sticks to it. It’s the same as paint and gold-leaf in the Navy. It comes out of some one’s pockets. How much does your kit cost you?”—this to the private in front of us. “About ten or fifteen quid every other year, I suppose,” was the answer. “Very good. Pack your bag—quick.” The man knelt, and with supremely deft hands returned all to the bag, lashed and tied it, and fell back. “Arms,” said Harrison. “Strip and show ammunition.” The man divested himself of his rolled greatcoat and haversack with one wriggle, as it seemed to me; a twist of a screw removed the side plate of the rifle breech (it was not a bolt action). He handed it to Harrison with one hand, and with the other loosed his clip-studded belt. “What baby cartridges!” I exclaimed. “No bigger than bulletted breech-caps.” “They’re the regulation .256,” said Harrison. “No one has complained of ’em yet. They expand a bit when they arrive…. Empty your bottle, please, and show your rations.” The man poured out his water-bottle and showed the two-inch emergency tin. Harrison passed on to the next, but I was fascinated by the way in which the man re-established himself amid his straps and buckles, asking no help from either side. “How long does it take you to prepare for inspection?” I asked him. “Well, I got ready this afternoon in twelve minutes,” he smiled. “I didn’t see the storm-cone till half-past three. I was at the Club.” “Weren’t a good many of you out of town?” “Not _this_ Saturday. We knew what was coming. You see, if we pull through the inspection we may move up one place on the roster for foreign service…. You’d better stand back. We’re going to pillow-fight.” The companies stooped to the stuffed kit-bags, doubled with them variously, piled them in squares and mounds, passed them from shoulder to shoulder like buckets at a fire, and repeated the evolution. “What’s the idea?” I asked of Verschoyle, who, arms folded behind him, was controlling the display. Many women had descended from the carriages, and were pressing in about us admiringly. “For one thing, it’s a fair test of wind and muscle, and for another it saves time at the docks. We’ll suppose this first company to be drawn up on the dock-head and those five others still in the troop-train. How would you get their kit into the ship?” “Fall ’em all in on the platform, march ’em to the gangways,” I answered, “and trust to Heaven and a fatigue party to gather the baggage and drunks in later.”