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Updated: August 14, 2024
"Battalion, slope arms! Dis-miss!" Every man, with one or two incurable exceptions, turns sharply to his right and cheerfully smacks the butt of his rifle with his disengaged hand. The Colonel gravely returns the salute; and we stream away, all the thousand of us, in the direction of the savoury smell.
"If I may say so, I think that if ever men deserved a good holiday, you do. Company, slope arms! Dis-miss!" We do not cheer: we are not built that way. But as we stream off to our Irish stew, the dourest of us says in his heart "God Save the King!" A moonlit, wintry night.
The corps knew all this ages ago. The man seemed to think he was telling them something fresh. They began positively to dislike him after a while. He finished at last. Eckleton marched off wearily, but in style, to its lines. "Dis-miss!" They did. "And about time, too," said Jimmy Silver. "I wish they would tie that man up, or something. He's one of the worst bores I know.
A bugle-call rang out over the camp. "Bed-time," said a Guardsman, "time to go bye-bye. Parade hype! Dis-miss! The orderly officer'll be round soon. Scoot, my sons." They scooted. The silvery notes of the bugle died away over the woods. Night was falling, and the sky faded slowly from mother-of-pearl to a leaden gray. We were alone.
From the shrubbery filed three boys, the first and tallest of whom wore an imposing dragoon's helmet with a crimson plume, and carried a sabretache and crossbelts, and wore red caps like those of the French army; they carried guns on their shoulders. 'Halt! 'Tention! Dis-miss! shouted the commanding officer, and the army broke off with admirable precision.
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