Sergeant Honk was not beautiful to look upon—his best friends conceded this. His nose was bent and red. He had one fixed and one revolving eye, and when the former had transfixed you, the latter wandered aimlessly about, seeking I know not what. He was so knock-kneed that his feet could never meet. I think it was the sergeant-major in Punch who complained that "it was impossible to make him look 'smart,' for when his knees stood at attention his feet would stand at ease."
To see Honk salute with one stiff hand pointing heavenward and his unruly feet ten inches apart has been known to bring a wan sweet smile to the face of blasé generals; but subalterns, more prone to mirth, have sometimes laughed outright.
Some one had thrown a banana peel upon the station platform. Honk stepped backward upon its slippery face. He didn't fall, but his queer legs opened and shut with a scissor-like snap that wrenched his dignity in twain.
"Fruit's the curse of the army," he muttered.
Somehow we got aboard at last—officers, non-commissioned officers and men. The crowd cheered a lusty farewell, and amidst much waving of pocket handkerchiefs and hats, Plymouth faded away, and the second stage of our journey began.
It was midnight when we pulled into Lavington station. There is no village there—merely a tavern of doubtful mien. Rain was falling in a steady drizzle as we emerged upon the platform and stood shivering in the bleak east wind. The transport officer, who had been awaiting our arrival, approached the colonel and saluted.
"Rather a nasty night, sir," he observed courteously.
"Bad night for a march," the colonel replied. "My men are tired, too. Hope we haven't got far to go?"
"Not very, sir; a matter of eight or nine miles only."
The colonel glanced at him sharply, thinking the information was given in satirical vein; but the Englishman's face was inscrutable.