“You’re quite right. Send ’em to me and I’ll talk to ’em. Youth is the time to learn.”
“Six hundred a year,” I repeated to Pigeon. “That must be an awful tax on a man. Worse than in the old volunteering days.”
“That’s where you make your mistake,” said Verschoyle. “In the old days a man had to spend his money to coax his men to drill because they weren’t the genuine article. You know what I mean. They made a favour of putting in drills, didn’t they? And they were, most of ’em, the children we have to take over at Second Camp, weren’t they? Well, now that a C. O. is sure of his men, now that he hasn’t to waste himself in conciliating an’ bribin’, an’ beerin’ kids, he doesn’t care what he spends on his corps, because every pound tells. Do you understand?”
“I see what you mean, Vee. Having the male material guaranteed——”
“And trained material at that,” Pigeon put in. “Eight years in the schools, remember, as well as——”
“Precisely. A man rejoices in working them up. That’s as it should be,” I said.
“Bayly’s saying the very same to those F. S. pups,” said Verschoyle.
The Boy was behind us, between two young F. S. officers, a hand on the shoulder of each.
“Yes, that’s all doocid interesting,” he growled paternally. “But you forget, my sons, now that your men are bound to serve, you’re trebly bound to put a polish on ’em. You’ve let your company simply go to seed. Don’t try and explain. I’ve told all those lies myself in my time. It’s only idleness. I know. Come and lunch with me to-morrow and I’ll give you a wrinkle or two in barracks.” He turned to me.
“Suppose we pick up Vee’s defeated legion and go home. You’ll dine with us to-night. Good-bye, Ramsay. Yes, you’re en état de partir, right enough. You’d better get Lady Gertrude to talk to the Armity if you want the corps sent foreign. I’m no politician.”