“No; 'e was a fly one—'e was.”
“Wotchermean?”
“Put 'isself down as Quaker.”
“Lummy—that's me next time I 'list—Quaker Oats!”
By this time I had been promoted to the rank of corporal.
Next to the regimental sergeant-major, I had the loudest drill voice on the square, and shouting at squad-drill and stretcher-drill was about the only thing I ever did well in the army—except that, having been a scout, I was able to instruct the signalling squad.
Route marches and field-days were a relief from the drill square. For five months we got no issue of khaki. Many of the men were through at the knees, and tattered at the elbows. Some were buttonless and patched. I had to put a patch in my shorts. Our civilian boots were wearing out—some were right through. Heels came off when they “right turned,” others had their soles flapping as they marched.
My “batman,” who cleaned my boots and swept out the bunk, had his trousers held together with a huge safety-pin. The people called us “Kitchener's Rag-time Army.” We became so torn, and worn, and ragged, that it was impossible to go out in the town. Being the only one in scout rig-out I drew much attention.
“'Ere 'e comes, Moik-ell!”
“Kitchener's cowboy! Isn't he lovely!”