"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 etat 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 tat 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.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284