Again silence, while the rotund Mucklewame perspires in the throes of mental exertion.
"Private Wemyss?"
No answer.
"Private M'Micking!"
The "buzzer" smiles feebly, but says nothing.
"Well,"—desperately—"Sergeant Angus! Tell them what you noticed in the foreground."
Sergeant Angus (floruit A.D. 1895) springs smartly to attention, and replies, with the instant obedience of the old soldier—
"The sky, sirr."
"Not in the foreground, as a rule," replies Bobby Little gently.
"About turn again, all of you, and we'll have another try."
In his next attempt Bobby abandons individual catechism.