"You've said that before. I'm shoving on all I know. There's a drill-book on the table there; take it and read it for once. It will do you good."
Annesley declined the monstrous proposition.
"Drill-books," he remarked, "are for those with no ideas of their own."
"That's why I suggest your reading it, Worm, but that ain't yours, that's Graeme's. I recognise the brand; there's enough about, too, goodness knows, of the same sort."
"Madder every day," continued Annesley. "He pow-wowed the squadron this morning in a white top-hat. A—white—top-hat! I'm not lying, Graves."
"I saw him, it's sickening. Lord! what a second in command, or rather C.O., for Royle's only a dummy. I thought too, after that last show-up before Bumps, he meant putting his foot down. Talked enough about it, but he ain't done it. Graeme wins another silly battle or two, and it's worse than ever. He daren't say "Damn it" to him now. Cavalry officer in a white top-hat, God!"
"Funny thing, the men never laughed. They did when they saw him first, but once he began to talk they shut up, and sat listening with their mouths open; so did Fanshawe and I, made us think, Graves, no end, felt I'd like to be—Napoleon."
"You—Napoleon?"
"Well, why not? Every soldier, you know, carries a field-marshal's what-you-may-call-it in his ruddy——"
"Shut up, for God's sake, you make me ill, Worm."