"Where are the guns?" I asked, as the mare lipped my coat-collar.
"Gone ahead long ago. They come out of their own door at the back of
barracks. We don't haul guns through traffic more than we can help.... If
Belinda breathes down your neck smack her. She'll be quiet in the streets.
She loves lookin' into the shop-windows."
The mounted company clattered through vaulted concrete corridors in the
wake of the main body, and filed out into the crowded streets.
When I looked at the townsfolk on the pavement, or in the double-decked
trams, I saw that the bulk of them saluted, not grudgingly or of
necessity, but in a light-hearted, even flippant fashion.
"Those are Line and Militia men," said Pigeon. "That old chap in the
top-hat by the lamp-post is an ex-Guardee. That's why he's saluting in
slow-time. No, there's no regulation governing these things, but we've all
fallen into the way of it somehow. Steady, mare!"
"I don't know whether I care about this aggressive militarism," I began,
when the company halted, and Belinda almost knocked me down. Looking
forward I saw the badged cuff of a policeman upraised at a crossing, his
back towards us.
"Horrid aggressive, ain't we?" said Pigeon with a chuckle when we moved on
again and overtook the main body. Here I caught the strains of the band,
which Pigeon told me did not accompany the battalion on 'heef,' but lived
in barracks and made much money by playing at parties in town.
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