“Huh!” said Matthews scornfully. “They’re always doin’ it in the Line and Militia drill-halls. It’s only circus-work.”
The guns were assembled again and some one called the time. Then followed ten minutes of the quickest firing and feeding with dummy cartridges that was ever given man to behold.
“They look as if they might amount to something—this draft,” said Matthews softly.
“What might you teach ’em after this, then?” I asked.
“To be Guard,” said Matthews.
“Spurs,” cried Purvis, as the guns disappeared through the doors into the stables. Each man plucked at his sleeve, and drew up first one heel and then the other.
“What the deuce are they doing?” I asked.
“This,” said Matthews. He put his hand to a ticket-pocket inside his regulation cuff, showed me two very small black box-spurs: drawing up a gaitered foot, he snapped them into the box in the heel, and when I had inspected snapped them out again.
“That’s all the spur you really need,” he said.
Then horses were trotted out into the school barebacked, and the neophytes were told to ride.