At that the troop fell in, each man with his curry-comb and brush, some in canvas jackets, some without, one or two in deer-skin coats, all with long boots, and otherwise compromising their civilian appearance with traces of uniform, except the Orderly Sergeant, who wore correct undress. He had to bring parade to attention and call the roll, then, after a smart numbering off, to give the "Fours right, quick march!" which sent the column briskly away to the horse lines. Half an hour sufficed to water horses, clean up bedding, groom and feed, then the beasts were left in charge of a picket detailed to herd them to pasture for the day. The parade was dismissed, and the men strolled home to their tents thinking audibly on the subject of breakfast.
"Constable La Mancha," the Orderly Sergeant had been consulting his notes.
"Well?"
"Consider yourself under arrest."
"Kiss my socks!" said the Blackguard. "Why, what have I done?" he continued innocently.
"Done? You'll find out soon enough."
"Yes, Sergeant—but which charge in particular—I've got to prepare my defence."
"Oh, give us a rest! Get off to breakfast,—I'm busy."
"'Twas ever thus!" said the Blackguard sorrowfully. "Thank goodness, the Colonel's away." But even as he turned abruptly towards the tents a mounted man coming up from behind barely avoided riding over him. "What d'you think you're doing?" cried the Blackguard angrily. The rider swerved gracefully clear with a touch of the rein, a hard-featured, clear-eyed veteran, grey with long service, sitting his horse with an easy dignity, dressed in rough frontier clothes, weary, travel-stained—the Colonel himself.
La Mancha saluted in haste, startling the horse into a succession of desperate plunges. "Just like my luck!" groaned the Blackguard, and would have gone on towards the camp fires of his mess, but the Colonel, alighting now before his tent on the far side of the parade ground, called to him, "La Mancha!"