Six or seven, I noticed, were sent back at this stage of the game. Then a cry went up from a group of privates standing near the line of contorted figures. “White, Purvis, white! Number Nine is spitting white!”
“I know it,” said Purvis. “Don’t you worry.”
“Unfair!” murmured the man who understood quick-firers. “If I couldn’t shape better than that I’d hire myself out to wheel a perambulator. He’s cooked.”
“Nah,” said the intent Matthews. “He’ll answer to a month’s training like a horse. It’s only suet. You’ve been training for this, haven’t you?”
“Look at me,” said the man simply.
“Yes. You’re overtrained,” was Matthews’ comment. “The Guard isn’t a circus.”
“Guns!” roared Purvis, as the men broke off and panted. “Number off from the right. Fourteen is one, three is two, eleven’s three, twenty and thirty-nine are four and five, and five is six.” He was giving them their numbers at the guns as they struggled into their uniforms. In like manner he told off three other guncrews, and the remainder left at the double, to return through the further doors with four light quick-firers jerking at the end of man-ropes.
“Knock down and assemble against time!” Purvis called.
The audience closed in a little as the crews flung themselves on the guns, which melted, wheel by wheel, beneath their touch.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I whispered.