Harry surveyed the group critically:
"A bit o' drill'd make men o' some of 'ee." He broke into a lusty barrack-room ditty—
"It's One—Two—ten times a day, And now that you 'ave got it, Don't yer give it away—! ONE—TWO—ten times a day, When I was in the timid, orkard squad, boys."
Alfred said solemnly:
"I ain't one to deny that wars may come. And you were always a good fighter, Harry, but we are men o' peace."
"Ay," said one of the group, "I never did fancy soldierin'."
Alfred said slily:
"William ain't yet forgiven a Hampshire redcoat who walked out and off, by Golly! with his girl."
Having fired this shot, Alfred walked on. In his mind he turned over the thought of war, such a war as he, indeed, had never dreamed of in maddest nightmare. And the words and tune of the barrack-room ditty echoed through the cells of his brain. He wondered vaguely whether he could stick such dire discipline—ten times a day. Wouldn't he up and smite the sergeant to mother earth with his big fists, which clenched themselves at the mere thought of such a treadmill? Then he reflected comfortably that England's fleet sailed gloriously between him and such a possibility. The Squire belonged to the blue-water school. So did the Parson. Alfred muttered to himself:
"They talk that way because they know no better, pore souls!"