There was a little squad of soldiers piling arms.
"Stand clear," said the subaltern in charge.
"Stand at—ease. Stand easy. Carry on, Sergeant."
The P.T. Instructor came forward.
"Now, lads," he said briskly, "take off your equipment and your tunics and puttees and roll up your sleeves. And while you're doin' it listen to your Uncle Brown, who's goin' to give things away.
"I 'aven't took any of you lads before—(come along there, my son; we ain't syncopatin' the movements)—but I'm told you're all B.E.F. men. Well then, I expect you think you know something. So you do. You know what a Jerry looks like and what a Whizzbang sounds like. But that ain't much. You don't know me. 'Ave a good look at me. You'll 'ear what I sound like in a minute."
He paused for effect and breath.
"Now you 'ave 'ad a look at me you'll know me. Not the Apollo Belgravia, but just plain Brown—Mrs. Brown's old man—that's me; and thank 'Eaven it's 'im you've got to deal with and not Mr. Brown's old woman. Now we'll get to work, lads, and 'ustle's the word."
He moved away a few paces.
"When I say 'Round me nip,'" he shouted, "I want to see a cloud of dust and a livin' statue. Round me—Nip!"