so previous, please. I'm taking this drill. Left,
half--turn! Slow--march." Twenty-five sluggards, all old offenders,
filed into the gymnasium. "Quietly provide yourselves with the requisite
dumb-bells; returnin' quietly to your place. Number off from the right,
in a low voice. Odd numbers one pace to the front. Even numbers stand
fast. Now, leanin' forward from the 'ips, takin' your time from me."

The dumb-bells rose and fell, clashed and were returned as one. The boys
were experts at the weary game.

"Ve-ry good. I shall be sorry when any of you resume your 'abits of
punctuality. Quietly return dumb-bells. We will now try some simple
drill."

"Ugh! I know that simple drill."

"It would he 'ighly to your discredit if you did not, Muster Corkran.
_At_ the same time, it is not so easy as it looks."

"Bet you a bob, I can drill as well as you, Foxy."

"We'll see later. Now try to imagine you ain't defaulters at all, but
an 'arf company on parade, me bein' your commandin' officer. There's
no call to laugh. If you're lucky, most of you will 'ave to take drills
'arf your life. Do me a little credit. You've been at it long enough,
goodness knows."

They were formed into fours, marched, wheeled, and countermarched, the
spell of ordered motion strong on them. As Foxy said, they had been at
it a long time.

The gymnasium door opened, revealing McTurk in charge of an old
gentleman.

The Sergeant, leading a wheel, did not see. "Not so bad," he murmured.
"Not 'arf so bad. The pivot-man of the wheel _honly_ marks time, Muster
Swayne. Now, Muster Corkran, you say you know the drill? Oblige me by
takin' over the command and, reversin' my words step by step, relegate
them to their previous formation."

"What's this? What's this?" cried the visitor authoritatively.

"A--a little drill, sir," stammered Foxy, saying nothing of first
causes.

"Excellent--excellent. I only wish there were more of it," he chirruped.
"Don't let me interrupt. You were just going to hand over to someone,
weren't you?"

He sat down, breathing frostily in the chill air. "I shall muck it. I
know I shall," whispered Stalky uneasily; and his discomfort was not
lightened by a murmur from the rear rank that the old gentleman was
General Collinson, a member of the College Board of Council.

"Eh--what?" said Foxy.

"Collinson, K.C.B.--He commanded the Pompadours-my father's old
regiment," hissed Swayne major.

"Take your time," said the visitor. "