Now I'm going to go through 'em
for socks and slippers."
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 tat 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.
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