Not that our Company Officer would have tolerated any nonsense of that kind.  Punctually at eight-thirty, after the second parade of the day, he marched through each hut, inspecting it and calling the attention of the Sergeant-Major to any detail which offended his sense of fitness.  On wet mornings, instead of parading outside, each man stood to his cot, and thus the comments of the Company Officer, as he went down the aisle, were audible to all.  Stiffly drawn up to attention, we wondered anxiously whether he would notice anything wrong with our buttons, boots or belts, or whether he would “spot” the books and jam jars hidden behind our overcoats on the shelves.  Nothing so decadent and civilian as a book—­and certainly nothing so unsightly as a jam jar—­must be visible on your barrack-room shelf.  It is sacred to equipment, and particularly to the folded great-coat.

“The Art of Folding” might have been the title of the first lesson of the many so good-naturedly imparted to me by my new comrades.  There was, I learnt, a right way and a wrong way to fold all things foldable.  The great-coat, for instance, must at the finish of its foldings, when it is placed upon the exactly middle spot above your bed’s end, present to the eye of the beholder a kind of flat-topped pyramid whose waist-line (if a pyramid can be said to own a waist) is marked by the belt with the three polished buttons peeping through.  The belt must bulge neither to the right nor to the left; the pyramidal edifice of great-coat must not loll—­it must sit up prim and firm.  And unless all your foldings of the great-coat, from first to last, have, been deftly precise, no pyramid will reward you, but a flabby trapezium:  the belt will sag, its buttons won’t come centrally, and indeed the whole edifice of unwieldy cloth will topple off its perch on the narrow shelf—­which was designed to refuse all lodgment for the property of persons who had unsound ideas on the subject of compact storage.

The second series of folderies to which the novice was initiated concerned themselves with his bedding.  This consisted of a mattress, three blankets and a pillow.  It is an outfit at which no one need turn up his nose.  I never spent a bad night in army blankets, though when out on leave I am sometimes a victim of insomnia between clean cold sheets.  But the moment the Reveille uplifted you from your couch, that couch had to be made ship-shape according to rule.  No finicky “airing”!  The mattress must be rolled up, with the pillow as its core, and placed at the end of the bed.  On top of it a blanket, folded longwise and with the ends hanging down, was laid neatly; on top of that you put the other two blankets, folded quite otherwise; then you brought the first blanket’s ends over, and reversed the resultant bundle and pressed it down into a thin stratified parallelogram with oval ends.  The strata of the said parallelogram, viewed from the aisle, must show no blanket edges, only curves of the blankets’ folds:  the edges (if visible at all) must face inwards, not outwards.  Correct folding, to be sure, gave no visible edges, viewed from either side; and, once you caught the knack, correct folding was just as easy as incorrect—­though there were temperaments which did not find it so and which rebelled against these niceties.