in all
respects most desirable Regiment within the compass of the Seven Seas.
He was taught the legends of the Mess Plate, from the great grinning
Golden Gods that had come out of the Summer Palace in Pekin to the
silver-mounted markhor-horn snuff-mull presented by the last C.O. [he
who spake to the seven subalterns]. And every one of those legends told
him of battles fought at long odds, without fear as without support; of
hospitality catholic as an Arab's; of friendships deep as the sea and
steady as the fighting-line; of honour won by hard roads for honour's
sake; and of instant and unquestioning devotion to the Regiment the
Regiment that claims the lives of all and lives for ever.

More than once, too, he came officially into contact with the Regimental
colours, which looked like the lining of a bricklayer's hat on the end
of a chewed stick. Bobby did not kneel and worship them, because British
subalterns are not constructed in that manner. Indeed, he condemned them
for their weight at the very moment that they were filling with awe and
other more noble sentiments.

But best of all was the occasion when he moved with the Tail Twisters
in review order at the breaking of a November day. Allowing for duty-men
and sick, the Regiment was one thousand and eighty strong, and Bobby
belonged to them; for was he not a Subaltern of the Line the whole Line,
and nothing but the Line as the tramp of two thousand one hundred and
sixty sturdy ammunition boots attested? He would not have changed places
with Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of cloud
to a chorus of 'Strong right! Strong left!' or Hogan-Yale of the White
Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the price of
horseshoes thrown in; or 'Tick' Boileau, trying to live up to his fierce
blue and gold turban while the wasps of the Bengal Cavalry stretched
to a gallop in the wake of the long, lollopping Walers of the White
Hussars.

They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little thrill
run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the empty
cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after the roar of the
volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear that sound in action.
The review ended in a glorious chase across the plain batteries
thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust of the White Hussars, and
the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a Sikh Regiment, till the lean lathy
Singhs panted with exhaust