Chestnut. That Mess gramophone must be red-hot by now. It's been running continuous since First Post. I suppose somebody's mamma has sent him a bottle of ginger-pop, and they're seeing life while the bubbles last.
Monty. Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading to-morrow morning with a camouflage tunic over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through squadron drill.
Iron-grey. God save us, thin!
A Mexican roan. Buenas noches!
Gunpack horse. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' as he trips over the heel shackles.
Monty. Hush, you fellows. Orderly Officer. Bong swar.
Once more heads and hips droop. They pose in attitudes of sleep like a dormitory of small boys on the approach of a prefect. The line Guard comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to march up and down as if salvation depended on his getting in so many laps to the hour. From the guard-tent a trumpet wails, "Lights out."
PATLANDER.