"They've been vetted, an' we're
putting 'em through their paces."
"They don't look a bit like raw material," I said.
"No, we don't use either raw men or raw meat for that matter in the
Guard," Matthews replied. "Life's too short."
Purvis stepped forward and barked in the professional manner. It was
physical drill of the most searching, checked only when he laid his hand
over some man's heart.
Six or seven, I noticed, were sent back at this stage of the game. Then a
cry went up from a group of privates standing near the line of contorted
figures. "White, Purvis, white! Number Nine is spitting white!"
"I know it," said Purvis. "Don't you worry."
"Unfair!" murmured the man who understood quick-firers. "If I couldn't
shape better than that I'd hire myself out to wheel a perambulator. He's
cooked."
"Nah," said the intent Matthews. "He'll answer to a month's training like
a horse. It's only suet. _You've_ been training for this, haven't you?"
"Look at me," said the man simply.
"Yes. You're overtrained," was Matthews' comment. "The Guard isn't a
circus."
"Guns!" roared Purvis, as the men broke off and panted. "Number off from
the right. Fourteen is one, three is two, eleven's three, twenty and
thirty-nine are four and five, and five is six." He was giving them their
numbers at the guns as they struggled into their uniforms. In like manner
he told off three other guncrews, and the remainder left at the double, to
return through the further doors with four light quick-firers jerking at
the end of man-ropes.
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