“What’s your corps?” said the Colonel of that Imperial Guard battalion to that child.
“Eighth District Board School, fourth standard, Sir. We aren’t out to-day.” Then, with a twinkle, “I go to First Camp next year.”
“What are those boys yonder—that squad at the double?”
“Jewboys, Sir. Jewish Voluntary Schools, Sir.”
“And that full company extending behind the three elms to the south-west?”
“Private day-schools, Sir, I think. Judging distance, Sir.”
“Can you come with us?”
“Certainly, Sir.”
“Here’s the raw material at the beginning of the process,” said Bayley to me.
We strolled on towards the strains of “A Bicycle Built for Two,” breathed jerkily into a mouth-organ by a slim maid of fourteen. Some dozen infants with clenched fists and earnest legs were swinging through the extension movements which that tune calls for. A stunted hawthorn overhung the little group, and from a branch a dirty white handkerchief flapped in the breeze. The girl blushed, scowled, and wiped the mouth-organ on her sleeve as we came up.