We numbered.
“Answer to your names,” said the discipline master, producing a paper. We could not help noticing that Tempest’s name was mixed in along with ours, and that no difference was made on account of his age or status. We were then formed into double rank, and fours, and open order, and put through a hideous series of extension exercises, irksome enough at any time, but under present circumstances specially so. I heard Dicky Brown beside me groan as he stood leaning over with his left knee bent, his right leg stretched out behind, and his two arms doubled up at his side.
“I wonder they don’t all kick,” he whispered.
“Not easy like this,” said I.
“How Tempest must be enjoying it!” Dick murmured.
“Poor beggar! it’s a nasty dose for him.”
But if Mr Jarman counted on any protest or resistance from his senior victim, he was disappointed. Tempest went patiently and impassively through the drill with the rest of us; but, as we could see, with a blazing eye fixed all the while on the master. But I could guess the struggle that was going on in my friend’s breast. Mr Jarman may have flattered himself he was “taking it out of him”, Dicky and I knew better.
We all took our cue from Tempest that morning, and any inclination to rebel or mutiny was suppressed. We contented ourselves with glaring at our tormentor, and denying him the excuse he probably desired of prolonging the agony. My impression is that Mr Jarman was never so happy as when he realised that he was absolute master of the situation. The Roman emperors were not in it with him.
“Attention! Front!” said he at last, when the proceedings were becoming dull even to him. “Stand at ease! Attention! Stand at ease! Attention! Left turn! Dismiss! As you were! Dismiss!”
It was a prolonged insult, and we knew it. But Tempest stood it, and so, consequently, did we. But as we filed from the place we felt that Mr Jarman’s turn would come some day.