'And what do the authorities say about it?'
'That beats me again.' The Sergeant spoke fretfully. 'I go to the 'Ead an' 'e gives me no help. There's times when I think he's makin' fun o' me. I've never been a Volunteer-sergeant, thank God—but I've always had the consideration to pity 'em. I'm glad o' that.'
'I'd like to see 'em,' said Keyte. 'From your statements, Sergeant, I can't get at what they're after.'
'Don't ask me, Major! Ask that freckle-faced young Corkran. He's their generalissimo.'
One does not refuse a warrior of Sobraon, or deny the only pastry-cook within bounds. So Keyte came, by invitation, leaning upon a stick, tremulous with old age, to sit in a corner and watch.
'They shape well. They shape uncommon well,' he whispered between evolutions.
'Oh, this isn't what they're after. Wait till I dismiss 'em.'
At the 'break-off' the ranks stood fast. Perowne fell out, faced them, and, refreshing his memory by glimpses at a red-bound, metal-clasped book, drilled them for ten minutes. (This is that Perowne who was shot in Equatorial Africa by his own men.)
Ansell followed him, and Hogan followed Ansell. All three were implicitly obeyed.
Then Stalky laid aside his Snider, and, drawing a long breath, favoured the company with a blast of withering invective.
''Old 'ard, Muster Corkran. That ain't in any drill,' cried Foxy.
