"That will do," he said. "Of course, I don't know much about regulations and never heard the orders. Very kind of you to instruct me, I am sure; I shall not forget it! Sorry to have disturbed your toilette, Mr. McLean, but I thought such a trifle could not seriously put you out. Someone else, probably, will be kind enough—whose hair curls easier than yours."
And tucking the white gloves into the cadet pocket (his sleeve), Mr. Prank strode haughtily away.
Rig felt miserable. He did not see that Magnus in his dark corner was shaking from head to foot. But to lose his character for obligingness! With a bound he was after the retreating chevrons.
"Oh, Mr. Prank!" he said. "Of course I didn't mean that you didn't know, sir; and I have just thought of a way, if you think it will do. I can hang the gloves on one of the bayonets where the arms are stacked, you know, sir, and then he can get them for himself."
"The very thing!" said Prank, with a well-kept face. "I see you are bright, Mr. McLean, as well as obliging. Take the gloves, my dear fellow, and be quick. And count upon me hereafter."
With a swelling heart Rig stepped briskly up to the shining row of guns, where not an inch nor a line was out of the most spick-and-span state of military precision, and hung the white pendant on a glittering point of steel. And as he turned—alas! he was tapped on the shoulder and marched off to the guard tent "for tampering with the arms."
"I shouldn't have minded that so much," he said afterwards to Magnus, "if I hadn't been such a double-distilled fool. And I'm not a fool really, you know,—but I'm not 'a gem of purest ray serene,' either. And I just lost my head with being told I was."
Plenty of that sort of sport (to give it its common name) went on in Camp Hard, and even the most patient men grew tired of it, and the most good-natured got cross. It is monotonous when all the fun goes to somebody else. Even the straight shoulders sometimes rebelled against the perpetual bracing up; and many a poor fourth classman wished that his grey trousers had no side seam which could serve as a landmark to his weary thumbs: for in those days "finning out" was in full force.
But indeed it was sometimes hard to take even what the law allowed.
A strict order had been published that no cadet should ask a pleb to perform any menial service, but when Corporal Main remarked, "Mr. Stone, there are some very dusty shoes in my tent,"—no more was needed. Stone was just come in from drill, and ached in every inch; but he went at the shoes, and cleaned and rubbed and polished for dear life, while Corporal Main strolled off with Miss Flyaway, and told her the story.