“For you see, Britty, I notice that the drill officer on parade don’t say ‘shoulder,’ but ‘shoale-dore!’ nor ‘arms,’ but ‘hums!’ and I want to be right by drill and not dictionary,” Elfie explained to Miss Conyers, who sat watching her performance in amazement.
“But Elfie, my dear, why do you go through all this!” she inquired.
“Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” mocked Elfie, trailing arms and panting for breath.
“Yes, I do!” said Miss Conyers, gravely.
“But I won’t.—Dear me, this rifle is very heavy,” said Elfie, as she set the arms up in a corner, and threw herself into an easy chair to recover her breath; “I do wonder why the government don’t have lighter ones made, such as might be handled easily by a boy of fifteen—”
“Or a girl of twenty,” murmured Britomarte, looking wistfully at Major Fielding’s daughter.
“—I am sure they have enough of such boys in the army—”
“—And a few of such girls,” murmured Miss Conyers thoughtfully.
“And I don’t wonder the poor lads drop exhausted on the march, carrying such heavy rifles.”
“Or that the poor lasses sometimes break down and get found out.”