I followed his eye and saw white flags fluttering before a drum and fife band and a knot of youths in sweaters gathered round the dummy breech of a four-inch gun which they were feeding at express rates.
“The attacks don’t interfere with you if you flag yourself, Sir,” the boy explained. “That’s a Second Camp team from the Technical Schools loading against time for a bet.”
We picked our way deviously through the busy groups. Apparently it was not etiquette to notice a Guard officer, and the youths at the twenty-five pounder were far too busy to look up. I watched the cleanly finished hoist and shove-home of the full-weight shell from a safe distance, when I became aware of a change among the scattered boys on the common, who disappeared among the hillocks to an accompaniment of querulous whistles. A boy or two on bicycles dashed from corps to corps, and on their arrival each corps seemed to fade away.
The youths at loading practice did not pause for the growing hush round them, nor did the drum and fife band drop a single note. Bayley exploded afresh. “The Schools are preparing for our attack, by Jove! I wonder who’s directin’ ’em. Do you know?”
The warrior of the Eighth District looked up shrewdly.
“I saw Mr. Cameron speaking to Mr. Levitt just as the Guard went up the road. ’E’s our ’ead-master, Mr. Cameron, but Mr. Levitt, of the Sixth District, is actin’ as senior officer on the ground this Saturday. Most likely Mr. Levitt is commandin’.”
“How many corps are there here?” I asked.
“Oh, bits of lots of ’em—thirty or forty, p’r’aps, Sir. But the whistles says they’ve all got to rally on the Board Schools. ’Ark! There’s the whistle for the Private Schools! They’ve been called up the ground at the double.”
“Stop!” cried a bearded man with a watch, and the crews dropped beside the breech wiping their brows and panting.
“Hullo! there’s some attack on the Schools,” said one. “Well, Marden, you owe me three half-crowns. I’ve beaten your record. Pay up.”