Around the Hundred stood or squatted the remainder of the battalion, in every kind and degree of dress and undress. Occasionally one of these would arise and go unto his pal in the ranks, fall upon his neck, embrace him once again, shake both his hands alternately, and then return to the eligible site whence, squatting on his heels, he could feast his eyes upon his bhai, his brother, his friend, so soon to be torn from him. . . . As the officers approached, these spectators fell back. Bertram’s heart beat so violently that he feared the others would hear it. Was he going to have “palpitations” and faint, or throw a fit or something? He was very white, and felt very ill. Was his ignorance and incompetence to be exposed and manifested now? . . .
“Look fierce and take over charge, my son,” said the Adjutant, as the small party of officers came in front of the draft.
“Company!” shouted Bertram, “Shun!”
That was all right. He had hit the note nicely, and his voice had fairly boomed. He had heard that men judge a new officer by his voice, more than anything.
The Hundred sprang to attention, and Bertram, accompanied by the Adjutant and Macteith, walked slowly down the front rank and up the rear, doing his best to look as though he were critically and carefully noting certain points, and assuring himself that certain essentials were in order. He was glad that he had not suddenly to answer such a question as “What exactly are you peering at and looking for?” He wished he had sufficient Hindustani to ask a stern but not unkindly question here and there, or to make an occasional comment in the manner of one from whom no military thing is hid. He suddenly remembered that he knew the Hindustani for “How old are you?” so he asked this question of a man whose orange-coloured beard would obviously have been white but for henna dye. Not in the least understanding the man’s reply, he remarked “H’m!” in excellent imitation of the Colonel, and passed on.
“Not the absolute pick of the regiment, I should think, are they?” he remarked to Murray, as they returned to the front of the company.
“They are not,” he said.
“Pretty old, some of them,” added Bertram, who was privately hoping that he did not look such a fraudulent Ass as he felt.
Major Fordinghame strolled up and returned the salutes of the group of officers.
“This experienced officer thinks the draft is not the pure cream of the regiment, Major,” said Murray, indicating Bertram.