[CHAPTER VI.]
IN THE BARRACK-ROOM.
Within twenty-four hours of his arrival in barracks, Herbert Larkins was bathed, cropped, clothed, numbered, and, so to speak, put away. His ‘rags,’ in plain English, his civilian clothes—invariably so called whether undeniable garments or veritable rags—had been exchanged for uniform, such as it was. A recruit, and especially in the fall of the year, when the annual issue of new clothing is near at hand, gets only things ‘part worn.’ So Herbert’s shell jacket, his regimental trousers, and his ammunition boots, were all of them palpable misfits.
He said as much to the corporal of the pioneers, who helped the quartermaster-sergeant in rigging out recruits.
‘Too large?’ replied the corporal, contemptuously. ‘Wait till you’re at the extension motions, or at club drill, and you’ll wish they were more than twice as big.’
‘But my trousers are too long, and—’
‘It’ll be longer before you get another pair. Besides, you ain’t done growing yet. Two months on full rations, and you’ll be as tall as a hop-pole. How do you think your legs ’d look then? Showing half a yard of sock above the high-lows, and the captain ’d be safe to put you down for a new pair of bags.’
‘And these boots are far too loose. I can’t feel the sides even.’
‘You’ll feel something else afore long, I can tell you, and not half so soft as leather. Them boots! Why, flash Alick Nokes wore them till he went “out”—and it ’d take a dozen Johnny Raws like you to make half a soldier such as him.’