‘A bit,’ the recruit answered. ‘You see, it’s been the dream of my life to join, and I’ve been taking lessons.’
‘Good old enthusiast!’ said Volnay. ‘I saw you meeting old Stayce. He’s a grand old sort. No finer soldier in the army. Regiment adores him. And he has an eye for a man who does his duty. A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse, old Pol, eh?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Polson.
‘You’ll try right enough. You’re a good old pebble. I’ve got to be professional, you understand. No end of a devil of a lot of unpleasantness if these chaps suspected favouritism.’
‘Oh,’ said Polson, ‘I’m at work. No playing en amateur.’
‘That’s the style. There are some of our fellows saying there’ll be no fighting. That’s rubbish. There’s glory in front of some of us, Polly.’
They went on in silence until they reached the guard.
‘Shun!’ roared the Sergeant, and the men clicked their heels together and straightened their backs and tucked their chins in and assumed that ramrod posture which the authorised drill-book of the day described as ‘the free and unconstrained attitude of a soldier.’
‘Sergeant,’ said Volnay, ‘this man has just joined, but Sergeant Gill finds that he can ride and has dismissed him from the riding school. He tells me that he’s been taking lessons in sabre practice. Just put him through his paces, will you?’
So the Sergeant set his squad to stand at ease again, and Polson, being provided with a belt and sabre, was stuck up in front of it, feeling absurdly like a trick ape on show.