"Good for you!" he said heartily. "But, Mr. Kindred, you are training with the wrong crowd."
And now Magnus coloured, and his eyes went down. Upright watched him for a moment in silence; then he took up a slip of paper, and held it out.
"Here is a reminding text I wrote off for you," he said. "Take it with you up and down the post. 'He setteth a print on the heels of my feet.' That will do, sir," and Magnus saluted, and whirled away.
"Might be the Com. himself, for the style he talks!" he grumbled, under his breath. But all the same, the words sank in. They were too true to miss a hearing, on the one side, and had been too kindly spoken to lose it, on the other. Yes, he was training with the wrong crowd, there was no doubt of that.
Magnus winced under the confession. There was no one he so little liked to find fault with as himself, and to court-martial Cadet Kindred, on his own knowledge and belief, was extremely unpleasant.
But the finding of the Court is rarely severe in such cases; and Magnus presently let himself off with a few admonitions to be more careful. He went to prayer-meeting regularly, boned discipline a little, and kept away from that crowd (what he called) "all he could."
Then they broke camp, and marched into barracks, and that was a help, for work began at a rate that left scant time for lawless play. Magnus Kindred had studied before, studied hard, but never with the exactness of drill and discipline and pressure that now filled every day. Breakfast, recitation, study, dinner, study, recitation, drill; then dress parade, supper, and study. Some of the plebs resigned and went home, others talked gloomily of being "found" in January; before which wintry fear homesickness itself gave way. And again others drew the buckles of their armour tight, looked well to their stirrups, and went at the difficulties, lance in rest.
THE BARRACKS IN WINTER