'All right, Sergeant. You never know what you may have to say to your men.—For pity's sake, try to stand up without leanin' against each other, you blear-eyed, herrin'-gutted gutter-snipes. It's no pleasure to me to comb you out. That ought to have been done before you came here, you—you Militia broom-stealers!'
'The old touch—the old touch. We know it,' said Keyte, wiping his rheumy eyes. 'But where did he pick it up?'
'From his father—or his uncle. Don't ask me! Half of 'em must have been born within earshot o' the barracks.' (Foxy was not far wrong in his guess.) 'I've heard more back-talk since this volunteerin' nonsense began than I've heard in a year in the service.'
'There's a rear-rank man lookin' as though his belly were in the pawn-shop. Yes, you, Private Ansell,' and Stalky tongue-lashed the victim for three minutes, in gross and in detail.
'Hullo!' He returned to his normal tone. 'First blood to me. You flushed, Ansell. You wriggled.'
'Couldn't help flushing,' was the answer. 'Don't think I wriggled, though.'
'Well, it's your turn now.' Stalky resumed his place in the ranks.
'Lord, Lord! It's as good as a play,' chuckled the attentive Keyte.
Ansell, too, had been blessed with relatives in the service, and slowly, in a lazy drawl—his style was more reflective than Stalky's—descended the abysmal depths of personality.
