But now the khaki-mills have ground out another million yards or so, and we have regulation greatcoats.  Water-bottles, haversacks, mess-tins, and waterproof sheets have been slowly filtering into our possession; and whenever we “mobilise,” which we do as a rule about once a fortnight—­whether owing to invasion scares or as a test of efficiency we do not know—­we fall in on our alarm-posts in something distinctly resembling ’the full “Christmas-tree” rig.  Sam Browne belts have been wisely discarded by the officers in favour of web-equipment; and although Bobby Little’s shoulders ache with the weight of his pack, he is comfortably conscious of two things—­firstly, that even when separated from his baggage he can still subsist in fair comfort on what he carries upon his person; and secondly, that his “expectation of life,” as the insurance offices say, has increased about a hundred per cent. now that the German sharpshooters will no longer be able to pick him out from his men.

Presently we approach the scene of our day’s work, Area Number Fourteen.  We are now far advanced in company training.  The barrack square is a thing of the past.  Commands are no longer preceded by cautions and explanations.  A note on a whistle, followed by a brusque word or gesture, is sufficient to set us smartly on the move.

Suddenly we are called upon to give a test of our quality.  A rotund figure upon horseback appears at a bend in the road.  Captain Blaikie recognises General Freeman.

(We may note that the General’s name is not really Freeman.  We are much harried by generals at present.  They roam about the country on horseback, and ask company commanders what they are doing; and no company commander has ever yet succeeded in framing an answer which sounds in the least degree credible.  There are three generals; we call them Freeman, Hardy, and Willis, because we suspect that they are all—­to judge from their fondness for keeping us on the run—­financially interested in the consumption of shoe-leather.  In other respects they differ, and a wise company commander will carefully bear their idiosyncrasies in mind and act accordingly, if he wishes to be regarded as an intelligent officer.)

Freeman is a man of action.  He likes to see people running about.  When he appears upon the horizon whole battalions break into a double.

Hardy is one of the old school:  he likes things done decently and in order.  He worships bright buttons, and exact words of command, and a perfectly wheeling line.  He mistrusts unconventional movements and individual tactics.  “No use trying to run,” he says, “before you can walk.”  When we see him, we dress the company and advance in review order.