"Now!" Bayley slid his arm through mine and led me across a riding road
towards a stretch of rough common (singularly out of place in a park)
perhaps three-quarters of a mile long and half as wide. On the encircling
rails leaned an almost unbroken line of men and women--the women
outnumbering the men. I saw the Guard battalion move up the road flanking
the common and disappear behind the trees.
As far as the eye could range through the mellow English haze the ground
inside the railings was dotted with boys in and out of uniform, armed and
unarmed. I saw squads here, half-companies there; then three companies in
an open space, wheeling with stately steps; a knot of drums and fifes near
the railings unconcernedly slashing their way across popular airs; and a
batch of gamins labouring through some extended attack destined to be
swept aside by a corps crossing the ground at the double. They broke out
of furze bushes, ducked over hollows and bunkers, held or fell away from
hillocks and rough sandbanks till the eye wearied of their busy legs.
Bayley took me through the railings, and gravely returned the salute of a
freckled twelve-year-old near by.
"What's your corps?" said the Colonel of that Imperial Guard battalion to
that child.
"Eighth District Board School, fourth standard, Sir. We aren't out
to-day." Then, with a twinkle, "I go to First Camp next year."
"What are those boys yonder--that squad at the double?"
"Jewboys, Sir.
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