“He doesn’t, though,” said the Major, who had overheard this auricular confidence.  We had left the stable.  “Our drivers are mighty fond of their horses—­and proud of them too.  It’s quite an infatuation in its way.  But come and see the O.T.C.  We’ve got them down here for the weekend, by way of showing them the evolutions of a battery.  They’ve got their instructor, an N.C.O. who’s been dug out for the job, and I’ve lent him two of the guns to put them through their paces.  He’s quite priceless—­a regular chip of the old Army block.”

“Now, sir,” the sergeant was saying, “get them into single file.”  They were to change from Battery Column to Column of Route.

“Battery...!” began the cadet in a piping voice.

“As y’ were,” interjected the sergeant in mild expostulation.  “You’ve got to get it off your chest, sir.  Let them ’ear it.  So!” And he gave a stentorian shout.  It was a meritorious and surprising performance, for he was fat and scant of breath.  The sedentary duties of hall-porter at the ——­ Club, after twenty-one years’ service in the Army, had produced a fatty degeneration which no studious arrangement of an Army belt could altogether conceal.

“Battery!” began the cadet, as he threw his head back and took a deep breath.  “Advance in single file from the right.  The rest mark time.”

“Rest!” said the sergeant reproachfully.  “There ain’t no rest in the British Army.  Rear, say, ‘Rear,’ sir.”

“Rear, mark time!” said the cadet uncomfortably.

“Now,” said the sergeant, as he wiped his brows, “double them back, sir.”

“Battery, run!” said the cadet brightly.

“As y’ were!  How could yer, Mr. ——?” said the sergeant grievously.  “The British Army never runs, sir!  They doubles.”  The cadet blushed at the aspersion upon the reputation of the British Army into which he had been betrayed.

“Double—­march!”

They doubled.

The sergeant now turned his attention to a party at gun drill.  It was a sub-section, which means a gun, a waggon, and ten men.  The detachment was formed up behind the gun in two rows, odd numbers in front, even numbers behind.

“Section tell off!”

“One,” from the front row.  “Two,” from the back.  “Three,” from the front.  The tale was duly told in voices which ran up and down the scale, tenor alternating with baritone.

“Without drag-ropes—­prepare to advance!” shouted the sergeant.  The odd numbers shifted to the right of the gun, the evens to the left, but numbers “4” and “6,” being apparently under the impression that it was a game of “musical chairs,” found themselves on the right instead of the left.

“Too many odds,” shouted the sergeant.  “The British Army be used to ’eavy hodds, but not that sort.  Nos. 4 and 6 get over to the near side.”

“Halt!  Action front!” They unlimbered, and swung the gun round to point in the direction of an imaginary enemy.