He had been knocking about Piccadilly all day,
had dined at the Junior, looked in at the Opera, and finished at the
Steak. He seemed a civilian of civilians. The most casual observer
would have declared that he could never have seen the inside of a
barrack-yard. So no surprise was expressed when the question was asked
him.
"What am I?" he repeated, languidly, and then he replied, with a yawn,
"Can't you see, old Chappie? Why, an Officer in the Guards!"
THE GOOD FORM OF THE FUTURE.
There he stood in his neat, serviceable undress uniform, with a cigar
between his lips. He had abandoned the swagger frogged coat and silk
sash for the unpretending patrol jacket of his brethren in the Line.
He had been hard at work all day in barracks, inspecting meals,
visiting the hospital, attending parades. He had paid his company
personally, had seen every man, and found that there were no
complaints. He had attended a mess meeting, and had dined at mess,
playing a rubber afterwards (sixpenny points) in the ante-room.
He knew as much about the internal economy of the Battalion as the
Colonel, the Adjutant, or the Sergeant-Major. He seemed a soldier of
soldiers. The most casual observer would have declared that he was
acquainted with every inch of the barrack-yard. So general surprise
was expressed when the question was asked him.
"What am I?" he repeated, briskly; and then he replied, with a smile,
"Can't you see, stupid? Why, an Officer in the Guards!"
* * * * *
VOCES POPULI.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25