Part 38 (1/2)

”Very good. Pack your bag--quick.”

The man knelt, and with supremely deft hands returned all to the bag, lashed and tied it, and fell back.

”Arms,” said Harrison. ”Strip and show ammunition.”

The man divested himself of his rolled greatcoat and haversack with one wriggle, as it seemed to me; a twist of a screw removed the side plate of the rifle breech (it was not a bolt action). He handed it to Harrison with one hand, and with the other loosed his clip-studded belt.

”What baby cartridges!” I exclaimed. ”No bigger than bulletted breech- caps.”

”They're the regulation .256,” said Harrison. ”No one has complained of 'em yet. They expand a bit when they arrive.... Empty your bottle, please, and show your rations.”

The man poured out his water-bottle and showed the two-inch emergency tin.

Harrison pa.s.sed on to the next, but I was fascinated by the way in which the man re-established himself amid his straps and buckles, asking no help from either side.

”How long does it take you to prepare for inspection?” I asked him.

”Well, I got ready this afternoon in twelve minutes,” he smiled. ”I didn't see the storm-cone till half-past three. I was at the Club.”

”Weren't a good many of you out of town?”

”Not _this_ Sat.u.r.day. We knew what was coming. You see, if we pull through the inspection we may move up one place on the roster for foreign service.... You'd better stand back. We're going to pillow-fight.”

The companies stooped to the stuffed kit-bags, doubled with them variously, piled them in squares and mounds, pa.s.sed them from shoulder to shoulder like buckets at a fire, and repeated the evolution.

”What's the idea?” I asked of Verschoyle, who, arms folded behind him, was controlling the display. Many women had descended from the carriages, and were pressing in about us admiringly.

”For one thing, it's a fair test of wind and muscle, and for another it saves time at the docks. We'll suppose this first company to be drawn up on the dock-head and those five others still in the troop-train. How would you get their kit into the s.h.i.+p?”

”Fall 'em all in on the platform, march'em to the gangways,” I answered, ”and trust to Heaven and a fatigue party to gather the baggage and drunks in later.”

”Ye-es, and have half of it sent by the wrong trooper. I know _that_ game,” Verschoyle drawled. ”We don't play it any more. Look!”

He raised his voice, and five companies, glistening a little and breathing hard, formed at right angles to the sixth, each man embracing his sixty- pound bag.

”Pack away,” cried Verschoyle, and the great bean-bag game (I can compare it to nothing else) began. In five minutes every bag was pa.s.sed along either arm of the T and forward down the sixth company, who pa.s.sed, stacked, and piled them in a great heap. These were followed by the rifles, belts, greatcoats, and knapsacks, so that in another five minutes the regiment stood, as it were, stripped clean.

”Of course on a trooper there'd be a company below stacking the kit away,”

said Verschoyle, ”but that wasn't so bad.”

”Bad!” I cried. ”It was miraculous!”

”Circus-work--all circus-work!” said Pigeon. ”It won't prevent 'em bein'

sick as dogs when the s.h.i.+p rolls.” The crowd round us applauded, while the men looked meekly down their self-conscious noses.

A little grey-whiskered man trotted up to the Boy.

”Have we made good, Bayley?” he said. ”Are we _en tat de partir_?”

”That's what I shall report,” said Bayley, smiling.

”I thought my bit o' French 'ud draw you,” said the little man, rubbing his hands.