“Brown, mind where you’re treading, man.”
“D——n it, I can’t help it; don’t be so savage.”
“Mark time! that is, keep moving without advancing. Halt front! left back’ards wheel! Now, gin’lemen, you’ll be pleased to remember that when I gives the words ‘Quick march!’ you’ll fall back’ards on the pivot man—that is to say, on the wheeling pint—all one as a gate on its ’inges. Quick march! that’s it, gin’lemen—that’s it.”
In this style the good-humoured but consequential little sergeant was wont to instruct us in the rudimental part of the glorious art of war.
On breaking off and dismissing the awkward squad the young men composing it assembled round Sergeant Giblett, who appeared to be a prime favourite amongst them, and he on his part was evidently so much pleased with them, that it was obviously with difficulty that his good-nature allowed him to maintain that dignity which he evidently felt, and which ought to be the inseparable concomitant of command.
“Well, sergeant, how did I do to-day?”
“Why, sir,” said Giblett, “it’s not my wish to flatter no gin’leman, but you have sartainly improved in your marchings.”
“And me, sergeant,” said another, “how do I get on?”
“Why, sir, you’ll soon be all right, if you pays a little more attention.”
“I say, sergeant, what makes you call the musket ‘she?’”