Upon the barrack square his platoon commander’s attention was again drawn to Peter, owing to the passionate enthusiasm with which he performed the simplest evolutions, such as forming fours and sloping arms—­military exercises which do not intrigue the average private to any great extent.  Unfortunately, desire frequently outran performance.  Peter was undersized, unmuscular, and extraordinarily clumsy.  For a long time Bobby Little thought that Peter, like one or two of his comrades, was left-handed, so made allowances.  Ultimately he discovered that his indulgence was misplaced:  Peter was equally incompetent with either hand.  He took longer in learning to fix bayonets or present arms than any other man in the platoon.  To be fair, Nature had done little to help him.  He was thirty-three inches round the chest, five feet four in height, and weighed possibly nine stone.  His complexion was pasty, and, as Captain Wagstaffe remarked, you could hang your hat on any bone in his body.  His eyesight was not all that the Regulations require, and on the musketry-range he was “put back,” to his deep distress, “for further instruction.”  Altogether, if you had not known the doctor who passed him, you would have said it was a mystery how he passed the doctor.

But he possessed the one essential attribute of the soldier.  He had a big heart.  He was keen.  He allowed nothing to come between him and his beloved duties. ("He was aye daft for to go sogerin’,” his father explained to Captain Blaikie; “but his mother would never let him away.  He was ower wee, and ower young.”) His rifle, buttons, and boots were always without blemish.  Further, he was of the opinion that a merry heart goes all the way.  He never sulked when the platoon were kept on parade five minutes after the breakfast bugle had sounded.  He made no bones about obeying orders and saluting officers—­acts of abasement which grated sorely at times upon his colleagues, who reverenced no one except themselves and their Union.  He appeared to revel in muddy route-marches, and invariably provoked and led the choruses.  The men called him “Wee Pe’er,” and ultimately adopted him as a sort of company mascot.  Whereat Pe’er’s heart glowed; for when your associates attach a diminutive to your Christian name, you possess something which millionaires would gladly give half their fortune to purchase.

And certainly he required all the social success he could win, for professionally Peter found life a rigorous affair.  Sometimes, as he staggered into barracks after a long day, carrying a rifle made of lead and wearing a pair of boots weighing a hundredweight apiece, he dropped dead asleep on his bedding before he could eat his dinner.  But he always hotly denied the imputation that he was “sick.”

Time passed.  The regiment was shaking down.  Seven of Peter’s particular cronies were raised to the rank of lance-corporal—­but not Peter.  He was “off the square” now—­that is to say, he was done with recruit drill for ever.  He possessed a sound knowledge of advance-guard and outpost work; his conduct-sheet was a blank page.  But he was not promoted.  He was “ower wee for a stripe,” he told himself.  For the present he must expect to be passed over.  His chance would come later, when he had filled out a little and got rid of his cough.