ARTRIDGES

The First Hundred Thousand

I

AB OVO

"Squoad--'_Shun!_ Move to the right in fours. Forrm--_fourrrs!_"

The audience addressed looks up with languid curiosity, but makes no
attempt to comply with the speaker's request.

"Come away now, come away!" urges the instructor, mopping his brow.
"Mind me: on the command 'form fours,' odd numbers will stand fast;
even numbers tak' a shairp pace to the rear and anither to the right.
Now--forrm _fourrs!_"

The squad stands fast, to a man. Apparently--nay, verily--they are all
odd numbers.

The instructor addresses a gentleman in a decayed Homburg hat, who is
chewing tobacco in the front rank.

"Yous, what's your number?"

The ruminant ponders.

"Seeven fower ought seeven seeven," he announces, after a prolonged
mental effort.

The instructor raises clenched hands to heaven.

"Man, I'm no askin' you your regimental number! Never heed that. It's
your number in the squad I'm seeking. You numbered off frae the right
five minutes syne."

Ultimately it transpires that the culprit's number is ten. He is
pushed into his place, in company with the other even numbers, and the
squad finds itself approximately in fours.

"Forrm--two _deep!_" barks the instructor.

The fours disentangle themselves reluctantly, Number Ten being the
last to forsake his post.

"Now we'll dae it jist yince more, and have it right," announces the
instructor, with quite unjustifiable optimism. "Forrm--_fourrs!_"

This time the result is better, but there is confusion on the left
flank.

"Yon man, oot there on the left," shouts the instructor, "what's your
number?"

Private Mucklewame, whose mind is slow but tenacious, answers--not
without pride at knowing--

"Nineteen!"

(Thank goodness, he reflects, odd numbers stand fast upon all
occasions.)

"Weel, mind this," says the sergeant--"Left files is always even
numbers, even though they are odd numbers."

This revelation naturally clouds Private Mucklewame's intellect for
the afternoon; and he wonders dimly, not for the first time, why he
ever abandoned his well-paid and well-fed job as a butcher's assistant
in distant Wishaw ten long days ago.

And so the drill goes on. All over the drab, dusty, gritty
parade-ground, under the warm September sun, similar squads are being
pounded into shape. They have no uniforms yet: even their instructors
wear bowler hats or cloth caps. Some of the faces under the brims of
thes