'Not so bad,' he murmured. 'Not 'arf so bad. The pivot-man of the wheel honly marks time, Muster Swayne. Now, Muster Corkran, you say you know the drill? Oblige me by takin' over the command and, reversin' my words step by step, relegate them to their previous formation.'
'What's this? What's this?' cried the visitor authoritatively.
'A—a little drill, sir,' stammered Foxy, saying nothing of first causes.
'Excellent—excellent. I only wish there were more of it,' he chirruped. 'Don't let me interrupt. You were just going to hand over to some one, weren't you?' He sat down, breathing frostily in the chill air.
'I shall muck it. I know I shall,' whispered Stalky uneasily; and his discomfort was not lightened by a murmur from the rear rank that the old gentleman was General Collinson, a member of the College Board of Council.
'Eh—what?' said Foxy.
'Collinson, K.C.B.—He commanded the Pompadours—my father's old regiment,' hissed Swayne major.
'Take your time,' said the visitor. 'I know how it feels. Your first drill eh?'
'Yes, sir.' He drew an unhappy breath. ''Tention. Dress!' The echo of his own voice restored his confidence.
The wheel was faced about, flung back, broken into fours, and restored to line without a falter. The official hour of punishment was long past, but no one thought of that. They were backing
