Nor could any excuse be found wherewith to evade the General. It was near the end of the drill-season, the Corps was up to its full strength, all the Officers were in the station—except Captain Ross-Ellison and the Adjutant. And the Adjutant's absence could not be made a just cause and impediment why the visit of the General should not be paid, for Colonel Dearman had with some difficulty, procured the appointment of one of his Managers as acting-adjutant.
To do so he had been moved to describe the man as an "exceedingly smart and keen Officer," and to state that the Corps would in no way suffer by this temporary change from a military to a civilian adjutant, from a professional to an amateur.
Perhaps the Colonel was right—it would have taken more than that to make the Gungapur Fusiliers "suffer".
And all had gone exceeding well up to the moment of the receipt of this terrible demi-official, for the Acting-Adjutant had signed papers when and where the Sergeant-Major told him, and had saluted the Colonel respectfully every Saturday evening at five, as he came on parade, and suggested that the Corps should form fours and march round and round the parade ground, prior to attempting one or two simple movements—as usual.
No. It would have to be—unless, of course, the General had a stroke before Saturday, or was smitten with delirium tremens in time. For it was an article of faith with Colonel Dearman since the disgraceful episode—that a "stroke" hung suspended by the thinnest of threads above the head of the "aged roué" and that, moreover, he trembled on the verge of a terrible abyss of alcoholic diseases—a belief strengthened by the blue face, boiled eye, congested veins and shaking hand of the breaker of hearts. And Colonel Dearman knew that he must not announce the awful fact until the Corps was actually present—or few men and fewer Officers would find it possible to be on parade on that occasion.
Saturday evening came, and with it some five hundred men and Officers—the latter as a body, much whiter-faced than usual, on receipt of the appalling news.
"Thank God I have nothing to do but sit around on my horse," murmured
Major Pinto.
"Don't return thanks yet," snapped Colonel Dearman. "You'll very likely have to drill the battalion"—and the Major went as white as his natural disadvantages permitted.
Bitterly did Captain Trebizondi regret his constant insistence upon the fact that he was senior Captain—for he was given command of "A" Company, the post of honour and danger in front of all, and was implored to "pull it through" and not to stand staring like an owl when the Colonel said the battalion would advance; or turn to the left when he shouted "In succession advance in fours from the right of Companies".
And in the orderly-room was much hurried consulting of Captain
Ross-Ellison's well-trained subaltern and of drill-books; and a babel of
such questions as: "I say, what the devil do I do if I'm commanding
Number Two and he says 'Deploy outwards'? Go to the right or left?"