Matthews gave me to understand that each company owned a cherished receptacle (sometimes not a respectable one) for the papers of the final drawing. He was telling me how his company had once stolen the Sacred Article used by D Company for this purpose and of the riot that followed, when through the west door of the schools entered a fresh detachment of stripped men, and the arena was flooded with another company.
Said Matthews as we withdrew, “Each company does Trials their own way. B Company is all for teaching men how to cook and camp. D Company keeps ’em to horse-work mostly. We call D the circus-riders and B the cooks. They call us the Gunners.”
“An’ you’ve rejected me,” said the man who had done sea-time, pushing out before us. “The Army’s goin’ to the dogs.”
I stood in the corridor looking for Burgard.
“Come up to my room and have a smoke,” said Matthews, private of the Imperial Guard.
We climbed two flights of stone stairs ere we reached an immense landing flanked with numbered doors.
Matthews pressed a spring-latch and led me into a little cabin-like room. The cot was a standing bunk, with drawers beneath. On the bed lay a brilliant blanket; by the bed head was an electric light and a shelf of books: a writing table stood in the window, and I dropped into a low wicker chair.
“This is a cut above subaltern’s quarters,” I said, surveying the photos, the dhurri on the floor, the rifle in its rack, the field-kit hung up behind the door, and the knicknacks on the walls.
“The Line bachelors use ’em while we’re away; but they’re nice to come back to after ‘heef.’” Matthews passed me his cigarette-case.
“Where have you ‘heefed’?” I said.