“Very good. Pack your bag—quick.”
The man knelt, and with supremely deft hands returned all to the bag, lashed and tied it, and fell back.
“Arms,” said Harrison. “Strip and show ammunition.”
The man divested himself of his rolled greatcoat and haversack with one wriggle, as it seemed to me; a twist of a screw removed the side plate of the rifle breech (it was not a bolt action). He handed it to Harrison with one hand, and with the other loosed his clip-studded belt.
“What baby cartridges!” I exclaimed. “No bigger than bulletted breech-caps.”
“They’re the regulation .256,” said Harrison. “No one has complained of ’em yet. They expand a bit when they arrive…. Empty your bottle, please, and show your rations.”
The man poured out his water-bottle and showed the two-inch emergency tin.
Harrison passed on to the next, but I was fascinated by the way in which the man re-established himself amid his straps and buckles, asking no help from either side.
“How long does it take you to prepare for inspection?” I asked him.
“Well, I got ready this afternoon in twelve minutes,” he smiled. “I didn’t see the storm-cone till half-past three. I was at the Club.”