"Good day, sir," replied the four, attempting to salute.
"Good lads—good lads!" muttered Sam to himself as they stumbled through the door.
Three days afterwards Sam had his thousand men. He quartered them in tents, selected some old soldiers for instructors, and commenced to train for war. Sergeant-Major Jones, an ex-Imperial Army man, was the terror of the show. This warrant officer realised what he was up against—a thousand rebels against convention, hypocrisies, and shams. They called a spade a spade. "Red tape" they cursed, and stupid officialdom they loathed. They were freemen, Bohemians of the plains. In the Bush they had learned to fight, cook, scheme, and generally look after themselves. Pioneers of the toughest kind. The type that has made our Empire what it is to-day. In drink they were like savages, ready to shoot the men they hated, ready to give a drunken embrace to the men they liked and respected.
And few of them were fools. Many could rip off Shakespeare by the yard; others could recite, in a feeling way, the best of Byron, Tennyson, Kipling, and Burns. The lonely plains and self-communion had given each a soul. Indeed, they were the oddest bunch of daring, devilry, romance, and villainy that had ever gathered for war. For such men there is only one type of leader, that is—the gentleman. Not the gentleman who says, "Please," like a drawing-room lady; but the gentleman who says, "Come on, boys—here's a job," in a kindly, but firm manner, with that touch of authority in the words which spells the master and the man, and reveals to the skunk that if he refuses a great fist will crack right under his chin and lay him out. Sergeant-Major Jones was, therefore, the gentleman required. He represented the finest virtues of the British N.C.O.—a class which has made the British Army what it is to-day, and a class meanly paid and shockingly neglected by the Governments of the past.
Sergeant-Major Jones had a breast of medals. He knew his job. Now that was important to these Australians. Australians are always up against what they call "the imported man." But if the imported man is what they call "a good fellow," and knows his job better than they do, they are fair enough to shake him by the hand and call him "friend." And the sergeant-major knew that he had to find an opportunity in the first week to show that he was the sergeant-major and that they were there to be disciplined. The opportunity came on the third day. A weak-looking sergeant, with a shrill, piping voice, was moving a squad up and down.
"Left—rights-left—— Stop your talking, Private Grouse," he shouted to a tall, burly-built and dour-looking man in his squad.
"Wot the deuce are you chippin' at?"
"Hold your tongue."
"Swank," replied the insolent man.
Sergeant-Major Jones heard him. "Halt!" he bellowed to the squad.