“What do you think of your chance?”
“Well, my coach thinks it doubtful. He has known fellows get their commissions who were worse up than I am, and he has known fellows fail who were better up than I am. It depends on the lot of competitors, and also on their quality, and a little bit on luck. There is a good bit of luck in having the questions you have crammed set, you know.”
“I can imagine there must be. And how about Strachan?”
“Well, if he has not got a good bit in hand, I am not in it, that’s all. He could give me a hundred marks and a beating. However, I fancy that he must be safe. But there is the Fall-in; I must be off.”
As Kavanagh left the tent Strachan came into it.
“Well, old fellow, and how did you sleep?” he asked.
“Not badly,” said Forsyth. “I fancy? Should have been still at it but for that big drum of yours.”
“Hush! It is lucky the Colonel is not here. Never speak of the big drum in that irreverent tone to him, I pray. It would well-nigh give him a fit. The big drum is his fetish, though he nearly smashed it himself last year.”
“How was that?”
“We were out on the Queen’s Birthday, and had to fire a feu de joie. Rattle up the front rank, rattle down the rear rank, three times, you know. The horses hate it, and the chief had a young one who did not like ordinary firing very well, though he had got him in hand for that. But the roll was too much for the gee’s nerves; he went wild with terror, bolted slap through the band, and finally reared up till he rolled over. It looked as if the Colonel was under him, and those who went to help thought him smashed. But he got up, and said, with a face of intense anxiety—