Soon after my arrival in our town a score of young lieutenants came
to our parade ground, accompanied by two commanders, a keen-eyed
adjutant, brisk as a bell, and a white-haired colonel with very thin
legs, and putties which seemed to have been glued on to his shins. The
young gentlemen were destined for various regiments, and most of them
were fresh and spotless in their new uniforms. Some wore Glengarry
bonnets, kilts, and sporrans, some the black ribbons of Wales; one,
whose hat-badge proclaimed the Dublin Fusilier, was conspicuous by the
eyeglass he wore, and others were still arrayed in civilian garb, the
uniform of city and office life. Several units of my battalion were
taken off to drill in company with the strange officers. I was one of
the chosen.
The young men took us in hand, acting in turn as corporals, platoon
sergeants, and company commanders. The gentleman with the eyeglass had
charge of my platoon, and from the start he cast surreptitious glances
at a little red brochure which he held in his hand, and mumbled words
as if trying to commit something to memory.
"Get to your places," the adjutant yelled to the officers. "Hurry up!
Don't stand there gaping as if you're going to snap at flies. We've
got to do some work. There's no hay for those who don't work. Come on,
Weary, and drill your men; you with the eyeglass, I mean! I want you
to put the company through some close column movements."
The man with the eyeglass took up his position, and issued some order,
but his voice was so low that the men nearest him could not hear the
command.


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