The band was hauled out by the hair of the head to practise the general salute, while all the men were hustled to get everything shining and—in line. Even the dixies in the cook-houses had to be drawn up according to the style laid down by army architects. Before General Pom-Pom was half-way to the unit, the men were being moved about the square like perfect machines (he loved that), the band was playing ‘The British Grenadiers,’ and every officer, including the C.O. and the adjutant, were tropically busy on the square.
Pom-Pom galloped on parade. ‘Morning, colonel; morning. What’s the scheme to-day?’
‘Ceremonial drill, sir. The companies are just being exercised; then I’m going to work the battalion.’
‘Excellent! Excellent! Nothing like ceremonial stuff for these fellows. Makes ‘em smart! Makes ‘em smart! By Jove! your band plays well. Reminds me of old days. Good to hear ‘em! Good to hear ‘em! Let’s see your battalion show now, colonel.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The battalion was mustered, during which the C.O. would tactfully ask old General Pom-Pom if he would kindly take post at the saluting base.
‘Certainly! Certainly!’ and off he would trot to the flag-pole. There he sat on his old bus-horse, pouting like a pigeon, and studying his wonderful shadow on the ground. The men, of course, were quite interested. Pom-Pom was, on the whole, very popular with the troops, and they did love to swank to the tune of ‘The British Grenadiers.’
The band played.
Down came the battalion like a perfect machine. The general straightened himself again.