Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (852 page)

“Don’t be ungrateful, Sergeant. They’re nearly as big as you get ‘em in the Army now.” McTurk read the papers of those years and could be trusted for general information, which he used as he used his “tweaker.” Yet he did not know that Wake minor would be a bimbashi of the Egyptian Army ere his thirtieth year.

Hogan, Swayne, Stalky, Perowne, and Ansell were deep in consultation by the vaulting-horse, Stalky as usual laying down the law. The Sergeant watched them uneasily, knowing that many waited on their lead.

“Foxy don’t like my recruits,” said McTurk, in a pained tone, to Beetle. “You get him some.”

Nothing loath, Beetle pinioned two more fags — each no taller than a carbine. “Here you are, Foxy. Here’s food for powder. Strike for your hearths an’ homes, you young brutes — an’ be jolly quick about it.”

“Still he isn’t happy,” said McTurk.

   “For the way we have with our Army

   Is the way we have with our Navy.”

Here Beetle joined in. They had found the poem in an old volume of “Punch,” and it seemed to cover the situation:

   “An’ both of ‘em led to adversity,

   Which nobody can deny!”

“You be quiet, young gentlemen. If you can’t ‘elp — don’t ‘inder.” Foxy’s eye was still on the council by the horse. Carter, White, and Tyrrell, all boys of influence, had joined it. The rest fingered the rifles irresolutely. “Wait a shake,” cried Stalky. “Can’t we turn out those rotters before we get to work?”

“Certainly,” said Foxy. “Any one wishful to join will stay ‘ere. Those who do not so intend will go out, quietly closin’ the door be’ind ‘em.”

Half a dozen of the earnest-minded rushed at them, and they had just time to escape into the corridor.

“Well, why don’t you join?” Beetle asked, resettling his collar.

“Why didn’t you?”

“What’s the good? We aren’t goin’ up for the Army. Besides, I know the drill — all except the manual, of course. ‘Wonder what they’re doin’ inside?”

“Makin’ a treaty with Foxy. Didn’t you hear Stalky say: ‘That’s what we’ll do — an’ if he don’t like it he can lump it’? They’ll use Foxy for a cram. Can’t you see, you idiot? They’re goin’ up for Sandhurst or the Shop in less than a year. They’ll learn their drill an’ then they’ll drop it like a shot. D’you suppose chaps with their amount of extra-tu are takin’ up volunteerin’ for fun?”

“Well, I don’t know. I thought of doin’ a poem about it — rottin’ ‘em, you know — ’The Ballad of the Dogshooters’ — eh?”

“I don’t think you can, because King’ll be down on the corps like a cartload o’ bricks. He hasn’t been consulted, he’s sniffin’ round the notice-board now. Let’s lure him.” They strolled up carelessly towards the honse-master — a most meek couple.

“How’s this?” said King with a start of feigned surprise. “Methought you would be learning to fight for your country.”

“I think the company’s full, sir,” said McTurk.

“It’s a great pity,” sighed Beetle.

“Forty valiant defenders, have we, then? How noble! What devotion! I presume that it is possible that a desire to evade their normal responsibilities may be at the bottom of this zeal. Doubtless they will be accorded special privileges, like the Choir and the Natural History Society — one must not say Bug-hunters.”

“Oh, I suppose so, sir,” said McTurk, cheerily. “The Head hasn’t said anything about it yet, but he will, of course.”

“Oh, sure to.”

“It is just possible, my Beetle,” King wheeled on the last speaker, “that the house-masters — a necessary but somewhat neglected factor in our humble scheme of existence — may have a word to say on the matter. Life, for the young at least, is not all weapons and munitions of war. Education is incidentally one of our aims.”

“What a consistent pig he is,” cooed McTurk, when they were out of earshot. “One always knows where to have him. Did you see how he rose to that draw about the Head and special privileges?”

“Confound him, he might have had the decency to have backed the scheme. I could do such a lovely ballad, rottin’ it; and now I’ll have to be a giddy enthusiast. It don’t bar our pulling Stalky’s leg in the study, does it?”

“Oh, no; but in the Coll. we must be pro-cadet-corps like anything. Can’t you make up a giddy epigram,
a’ la Catullus
, about King objectin’ to it?” Beetle was at this noble task when Stalky returned all hot from his first drill.

“Hullo, my ramrod-bunger!” began McTurk. “Where’s your dead dog? Is it Defence or Defiance?”

“Defiance,” said Stalky, and leaped on him at that word. “Look here, Turkey, you mustn’t rot the corps. We’ve arranged it beautifully. Foxy swears he won’t take us out into the open till we say we want to go.”

“
Dis
-gustin’ exhibition of immature infants apin’ the idiosyncrasies of their elders. Snff!”

“Have you drawn King, Beetle?” Stalky asked in a pause of the scuffle.

“Not exactly; but that’s his genial style.”

“Well, listen to your Uncle Stalky — who is a great man. Moreover and subsequently, Foxy’s goin’ to let us drill the corps in turn —
privatim et seriatim
— so that we’ll all know how to handle a half company anyhow.
Ergo
, an’
propter hoc
, when we go to the Shop we shall be dismissed drill early; thus, my beloved ‘earers, combinin’ education with wholesome amusement.”

“I knew you’d make a sort of extra-tu of it, you cold-blooded brute,” said McTurk. “Don’t you want to die for your giddy country?”

“Not if I can jolly well avoid it. So you mustn’t rot the corps.”

“We’d decided on that, years ago,” said Beetle, scornfully. “King’ll do the rottin’.”

“Then you’ve got to rot King, my giddy poet. Make up a good catchy Limerick, and let the fags sing it.”

“Look here, you stick to volunteerin’, and don’t jog the table.”

“He won’t have anything to take hold of,” said Stalky, with dark significance.

They did not know what that meant till, a few days later, they proposed to watch the corps at drill. They found the gymnasium door locked and a fag on guard. “This is sweet cheek,” said McTurk, stooping.

“Mustn’t look through the key-hole,” said the sentry.

“I like that. Why, Wake, you little beast, I made you a volunteer.”

“Can’t help it. My orders are not to allow any one to look.”

“S’pose we do?” said McTurk. “S’pose we jolly well slay you?”

“My orders are, I am to give the name of anybody who interfered with me on my post, to the corps, an’ they’d deal with him after drill, accordin’ to martial law.”

“What a brute Stalky is!” said Beetle. They never doubted for a moment who had devised that scheme.

“You esteem yourself a giddy centurion, don’t you?” said Beetle, listening to the crash and rattle of grounded arms within.

“My ordcrs are, not to talk except to explain my orders — they’ll lick me if I do.”

McTurk looked at Beetle. The two shook their heads and turned away.

“I swear Stalky
is
a great man,” said Beetle after a long pause. “One consolation is that this sort of secret-society biznai will drive King wild.”

It troubled many more than King, but the members of the corps were muter than oysters. Foxy, being bound by no vow, carried his woes to Keyte.

“I never come across such nonsense in my life. They’ve tiled the lodge, inner and outer guard, all complete, and then they get to work, keen as mustard.”

“But what’s it all for?” asked the ex-Troop Sergeant-Major.

“To learn their drill. You never saw anything like it. They begin after I’ve dismissed ‘em — practisin’ tricks; but out into the open they will
not
come — not for ever so. The ‘ole thing is pre-posterous. If you’re a cadet-corps,
I
say, be a cadet-corps, instead o’ hidin’ be’ind locked doors.”

“And what do the authorities say about it?”

“That beats me again.” The Sergeant spoke fretfully. “I go to the ‘Ead an’ ‘e gives me no help. There’s times when I think he’s makin’ fun o’ me. I’ve never been a Volunteer-sergeant, thank God — but I’ve always had the consideration to pity ‘em. I’m glad o’ that.”

“I’d like to see ‘em,” said Keyte. “From your statements, Sergeant, I can’t get at what they’re after.”

“Don’t ask me, Major! Ask that freckle-faced young Corkran. He’s their generalissimo.”

One does not refuse a warrior of Sobraon, or deny the only pastry-cook within bounds. So Keyte came, by invitation, leaning upon a stick, tremulous with old age, to sit in a corner and watch.

“They shape well. They shape uncommon well,” he whispered between evolutions.

“Oh, this isn’t what they’re after. Wait till I dismiss ‘em.”

At the “break-off” the ranks stood fast. Perowne fell out, faced them, and, refreshing his memory by glimpses at a red-bound, metal-clasped book, drilled them for ten minutes. (This is that Perowne who was shot in Equatorial Africa by his own men.) Ansell followed him, and Hogan followed Ansell. All three were implicitly obeyed. Then Stalky laid aside his Snider, and, drawing a long breath, favored the company with a blast of withering invective.

“‘Old ‘ard, Muster Corkran. That ain’t in any drill,” cried Foxy.

“All right, Sergeant. You never know what you may have to say to your men. — For pity’s sake, try to stand up without leanin’ against each other, you blear-eyed, herrin’-gutted gutter-snipes. It’s no pleasure to me to comb you out. That ought to have been done before you came here, you — you militia broom-stealers.”

“The old touch — the old touch.
We
know it,” said Keyte, wiping his rheumy eyes. “But where did he pick it up?”

“From his father — or his uncle. Don’t ask me! Half of ‘em must have been born within earshot o’ the barracks.” (Foxy was not far wrong in his guess.) “I’ve heard more back-talk since this volunteerin’ nonsense began than I’ve heard in a year in the service.”

“There’s a rear-rank man lookin’ as though his belly were in the pawn-shop. Yes, you, Private Ansell,” and Stalky tongue-lashed the victim for three minutes, in gross and in detail.

“Hullo!” He returned to his normal tone. “First blood to me. You flushed, Ansell. You wriggled.”

“Couldn’t help flushing,” was the answer. “Don’t think I wriggled, though.”

“Well, it’s your turn now.” Stalky resumed his place in the ranks.

“Lord, Lord! It’s as good as a play,” chuckled the attentive Keyte. Ansell, too, had been blessed with relatives in the service, and slowly, in a lazy drawl — his style was more reflective than Stalky’s — descended the abysmal depths of personality.

“Blood to me!” he shouted triumphantly. “You couldn’t stand it, either.” Stalky was a rich red, and his Snider shook visibly.

“I didn’t think I would,” he said, struggling for composure, “but after a bit I got in no end of a bait. Curious, ain’t it?”

“Good for the temper,” said the slow-moving Hogan, as they returned arms to the rack.

“Did you ever?” said Foxy, hopelessly, to Keyte.

“I don’t know much about volunteers, but it’s the rummiest show I ever saw. I can see what they’re gettin’ at, though. Lord! how often I’ve been told off an’ dressed down in my day! They shape well — extremely well they shape.”

“If I could get ‘em out into the open, there’s nothing I couldn’t do with ‘em, Major. Perhaps when the uniforms come down, they’ll change their mind.”

Indeed it was time that the corps made some concession to the curiosity of the school. Thrice had the guard been maltreated and thrice had the corps dealt out martial law to the offender. The school raged. What was the use, they asked, of a cadet-corps which none might see? Mr. King congratulated them on their invisible defenders, and they could not parry his thrusts. Foxy was growing sullen and restive. A few of the corps expressed openly doubts as to the wisdom of their course; and the question of uniforms loomed on the near horizon. If these were issued, they would be forced to wear them.

But, as so often happens in this life, the matter was suddenly settled from without.

The Head had duly informed the Council that their recommendation had been acted upon, and that, so far as he could learn, the buys were drilling. He said nothing of the terms on which they drilled. Naturally, General Collinson was delighted and told his friends. One of his friends rejoiced in a friend, a Member of Parliament — a zealous, an intelligent, and, above all, a patriotic person, anxious to do the most good in the shortest possible time. But we cannot answer, alas! for the friends of our friends. If Collinson’s friend had introduced him to the General, the latter would have taken his measure and saved much. But the friend merely spoke of his friend; and since no two people in the world see eye to eye, the picture conveyed to Collinson was inaccurate. Moreover, the man was an M.P., an impeccable Conservative, and the General had the English soldier’s lurking respect for any member of the Court of Last Appeal. He was going down into the West country, to spread light in somebody’s benighted constituency. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if, armed with the General’s recommendation, he, taking the admirable and newly established cadet-corps for his text, spoke a few words — ”Just talked to the boys a little — eh? You know the kind of thing that would be acceptable; and he’d be the very man to do it. The sort of talk that boys understand, you know.”