"Do you think it's really as bad as that, Prescott?" demanded
Captain Cartwright, who was walking just behind them.
"Worse!" Dick replied dryly and briefly.
Cartwright sighed, then took a tighter grip on the swagger stick that he carried jauntily in his right hand. Cartwright was a smart, soldierly looking chap, but was well known as an officer who was not addicted to hard work.
Past three or four barrack buildings on the street the chums walked,
Cartwright still keeping just behind them.
"Look at the work of Sergeant Mock, will you?" demanded Greg, halting short as they came to the edge of one of the drill grounds.
Mock belonged to Greg's own company. At this moment the sergeant was busy, or should have been, drilling what was supposed to be a platoon, though to-day it consisted of only two corporals' squads, or sixteen men in all.
Greg Holmes's eyes opened wide with disgust as he watched the drilling, unseen by the sergeant.
The platoon had just wheeled and marched off by fours. The cadence was too slow, the men looked slouchy and showed no signs whatever of spirit.
"Perhaps the sergeant isn't feeling well," remarked Dick, with a smile.
"He won't be feeling well after he has talked with me," Greg uttered between his teeth.