'Afraid the uniform won't suit your creamy complexion?' M'Turk asked with a villainous sneer.
'Shut up, Turkey. You aren't goin' up for the Army.'
'No, but I'm goin' to send a substitute. Hi! Morrell an' Wake! You two fags by the arm-rack, you've got to volunteer.'
Blushing deeply—they had been too shy to apply before—the youngsters sidled towards the Sergeant.
'But I don't want the little chaps—not at first,' said the Sergeant disgustedly. 'I want—I'd like some of the Old Brigade—the defaulters—to stiffen 'em a bit'
'Don't be ungrateful, Sergeant. They're nearly as big as you get 'em in the Army now.' M'Turk read the papers of those years and could be trusted for general information, which he used as he used his 'tweaker.' Yet he did not know that Wake minor would be a bimbashi of the Egyptian Army ere his thirtieth year.
Hogan, Swayne, Stalky, Perowne, and Ansell were deep in consultation by the vaulting-horse, Stalky as usual laying down the law. The Sergeant watched them uneasily, knowing that many waited on their lead.
'Foxy don't like my recruits,' said M'Turk, in a pained tone, to Beetle. 'You get him some.'
Nothing loath, Beetle pinioned two more fags—each no taller than a carbine.
'Here you are, Foxy. Here's food for powder. Strike for your hearths an' homes, you young brutes—an' be jolly quick about it.'
