assist to
this end could go, those who could thwart or hinder this end could die.

Gleams of humour enlivened the situation. Mrs. Gosling-Green (_nee_ a
Pounding-Pobble, Superiora Pounding-Pobble, one of the Pounding-Pobbles
of Putney) was under the orders, very much under the orders, of the wife
of the Sergeant-Major, and early and plainly learnt that good woman's
opinion that she was a poor, feckless body and eke a fushionless, not
worth the salt of her porridge--a lazy slut withal.

Among the "awkward squads" enrolled when rioting broke out and the corps
seized the old Prison, were erstwhile grave and reverend seniors
learning to "stand up like a man an' look prahd o' yourself" at the
orders of the Sergeant-Major. Among them were two who had been Great
Men, Managers signing _per_ and _pro_, Heads of Departments, almost Tin
Gods, and one of them, alas, was at the mercy of a mere boy whom he had
detested and frequently "squashed" in the happy days of yore. The mere
boy (a cool, humorous, and somewhat vindictive person, one of the best
subalterns of the Corps and especially chosen by Colonel Ross-Ellison
when re-organizing the battalion after its disbandment) was giving his
close attention to the improvement of his late manager, a pompous, dull
and silly bureaucrat, even as his late manager had done for him.

"Now, Private Bulliton," he would urge, "_do_ learn which is your right
hand and which is your left. And _do_ stand up.... No--don't drop your
rifle when you are told to 'shoulder'. _That's_ better--we shall make
something of you yet. Head up, man, head up! Try and look fierce. Look
at Private Faggit--he'll be a Sergeant yet" ... and indeed Private
Horace Faggit was looking very fierce indeed, for he desired the blood
of these interfering villains who were hindering the development of the
business of the fine old British firm of Messrs. Schneider, Schnitzel,
Schnorrer & Schmidt and the commissions of their representative. Also he
felt that he was assisting at the making of history. 'Orace in a
bloomin' siege--Gorblimey!--and he, who had never killed anything bigger
than an insect in his life, lusted to know how it felt to shove your
bayonet into a feller or shoot 'im dead at short rynge. So Horace
drilled with alacrity and zest, paid close attention to
aiming-instruction and to such visual-training and distance-judging as
his officer, Captain John Bruce, could give him, and developed a
military aptitude surprisin