"Thank you, Mr. Wayne!" he said earnestly. "Come to the guard-house before call to quarters. I must go."
"I will walk down with you," said his friend.
"But I must run!"
And away he went, springing down the hill through every short cut that could be found; the grey and white showing, and hiding, and coming out again further on.
Mr. Wayne watched him with great interest, taking his own pace the while down the hill; and now, as he went, from every other quarter came just such flying figures. From the woods, from Flirtation, from the river; from lingering last words on doorsteps, and girls and bonbons in the houses. Hastening along with the graceful ease of long practice, hurrying to lose themselves behind the grim grey walls of barracks.
And Mr. Wayne watched and laughed; but then his eyes grew grave. Will they make such haste at every call of duty, these gay youngsters? on hand and "ready" at each noble muster? Alas, no! Even now some are getting an "absence," and some a "late," and of others the guns are not cleaned and the bell buttons will be tarnished. Ready! it is a short word; but it means a man's whole ceaseless purpose, self-denial, and care. How little those speeding figures on the green guessed that anybody on the old hillside was praying for them; but I believe the very skill and swiftness with which they darted along, gave stringency to the prayer; such power for good, such forces for evil; such ease in doing the right thing, such recklessness, sometimes, whether it was done or not. Through his glass, Mr. Wayne could study it all out.
See that one now; a tall fellow, going over the ground at a rate to take common people's breath away. It is not altogether his fault that he has to run for it; his best girl is on hand to-day, and this was a critical walk round Flirtation. Drum-calls were scarcely heard, and minutes flew unheeded. No carelessness of orders kept him back, and no contempt for them make him linger now. He does not mean to have even a late; and so dashes on and wins. There is some jeering and clapping as the tall figure comes up; "Two-forty" being his affectionate soubriquet; but all the same he is there, in ranks, with about ten seconds or less to spare.
Another—Oh, yes, he set out to run; anathematising the drum, the parade, and the regulations, and so soon stops; runs again—and stops, with a sort of what's-the-use air. "How much time?" he asks another, who is walking calmly on.
"None at all."
Whereupon he quickens his steps; but not so the second. The drum-beats come thicker and faster—that makes no odds. It is only a "skin" more or less, he says to himself; and he's sure to get it some other way, if not this; and he has lost his Christmas leave already. So, while the rest fall in, and answer to roll-call, he comes leisurely up to barracks, some minutes after the last man has shouted "Here!"