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"Say one an' fourpence, Muster Corkran... Of course, Sergeant, if it was any use to give my time, I'd be pleased to do it, but I'm too old. I'd like to see a drill again." "Oh, come on, Stalky," cried McTurk. "He isn't listenin' to you. Chuck over the money." "I want the quid changed, you ass. Keyte! Private Keyte! Corporal Keyte! Terroop-Sergeant-Major Keyte, will you give me change for a quid?"
One does not refuse a warrior of Sobraon, or deny the only pastry-cook within bounds. So Keyte came, by invitation, leaning upon a stick, tremulous with old age, to sit in a corner and watch. "They shape well. They shape uncommon well," he whispered between evolutions. "Oh, this isn't what they're after. Wait till I dismiss 'em." At the "break-off" the ranks stood fast.
"I didn't think I would," he said, struggling for composure, "but after a bit I got in no end of a bait. Curious, ain't it?" "Good for the temper," said the slow-moving Hogan, as they returned arms to the rack. "Did you ever?" said Foxy, hopelessly, to Keyte. "I don't know much about volunteers, but it's the rummiest show I ever saw. I can see what they're gettin' at, though.
Foxy, being bound by no vow, carried his woes to Keyte. "I never come across such nonsense in my life. They've tiled the lodge, inner and outer guard, all complete, and then they get to work, keen as mustard." "But what's it all for?" asked the ex-Troop Sergeant-Major. "To learn their drill. You never saw anything like it.
"Yes yes, of course. Seven an' six." He stared abstractedly, pushed the silver over, and melted away into the darkness of the back room. "Now those two'll jaw about the Mutiny till tea-time," said Beetle. "Old Keyte was at Sobraon," said Stalky. "Hear him talk about that sometimes! Beats Foxy hollow." The Head's face, inscrutable as ever, was bent over a pile of letters.
They overtook Foxy, speeding down to retail the adventure to Keyte, who in his time had been Troop Sergeant-Major in a cavalry regiment, and now, war-worn veteran, was local postmaster and confectioner. "You owe us something," said Stalky, with meaning. "I'm 'ighly grateful, Muster Corkran.
You never know what you may have to say to your men. For pity's sake, try to stand up without leanin' against each other, you blear-eyed, herrin'-gutted gutter-snipes. It's no pleasure to me to comb you out. That ought to have been done before you came here, you you militia broom-stealers." "The old touch the old touch. We know it," said Keyte, wiping his rheumy eyes.
You flushed, Ansell. You wriggled." "Couldn't help flushing," was the answer. "Don't think I wriggled, though." "Well, it's your turn now." Stalky resumed his place in the ranks. "Lord, Lord! It's as good as a play," chuckled the attentive Keyte.
There's times when I think he's makin' fun o' me. I've never been a Volunteer-sergeant, thank God but I've always had the consideration to pity 'em. I'm glad o' that." "I'd like to see 'em," said Keyte. "From your statements, Sergeant, I can't get at what they're after." "Don't ask me, Major! Ask that freckle-faced young Corkran. He's their generalissimo."
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