"I thought my bit o' French 'ud draw you," said the little man, rubbing
his hands.
"Who is he?" I whispered to Pigeon.
"Ramsay--their C.O. An old Guard captain. A keen little devil. They say he
spends six hundred a year on the show. He used to be in the Lincolns till
he came into his property."
"Take 'em home an' make 'em drunk," I heard Bayley say. "I suppose you'll
have a dinner to celebrate. But you may as well tell the officers of E
company that I don't think much of them. I sha'n't report it, but their
men were all over the shop."
"Well, they're young, you see," Colonel Ramsay began.
"You're quite right. Send 'em to me and I'll talk to 'em. Youth is the
time to learn."
"Six hundred a year," I repeated to Pigeon. "That must be an awful tax on
a man. Worse than in the old volunteering days."
"That's where you make your mistake," said Verschoyle. "In the old days a
man had to spend his money to coax his men to drill because they weren't
the genuine article. You know what I mean. They made a favour of putting
in drills, didn't they? And they were, most of 'em, the children we have
to take over at Second Camp, weren't they? Well, now that a C. O. is sure
of his _men_, now that he hasn't to waste himself in conciliating an'
bribin', an' beerin' _kids_, he doesn't care what he spends on his corps,
because every pound tells. Do you understand?"
"I see what you mean, Vee.
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