“You’ll know in half an hour,” Burgard laughed. “What possessed you to take your ponies across the sand-pits, Pij?”
“Pride. Silly pride,” said the Canadian.
We crossed the common to a very regulation paradeground overlooked by a statue of our Queen. Here were carriages, many and elegant, filled with pretty women, and the railings were lined with frockcoats and top hats. “This is distinctly social,” I suggested to Kyd.
“Ra-ather. Our F.S. corps is nothing if not correct, but Bayley’ll sweat ’em all the same.”
I saw six companies drawn up for inspection behind lines of long sausage-shaped kit-bags. A band welcomed us with “A Life on the Ocean Wave.”
“What cheek!” muttered Verschoyle. “Give ’em beans, Bayley.”
“I intend to,” said the Colonel, grimly. “Will each of you fellows take a company, please, and inspect ’em faithfully. ‘En état de partir’ is their little boast, remember. When you’ve finished you can give ’em a little pillow-fighting.”
“What does the single cannon on those men’s sleeves mean?” I asked.
“That they’re big gun-men, who’ve done time with the Fleet,” Bayley returned. “Any F.S. corps that has over twenty per cent big-gun men thinks itself entitled to play ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’—when it’s out of hearing of the Navy.”
“What beautiful stuff they are! What’s their regimental average?”