know, Harry Lauder they have heard of; but this song has no meaning
for them. It is ours, ours, ours. So we march on. The feet of Bobby
Little, as he tramps at the head of his platoon, hardly touch the
ground. His head is in the air. One day, he feels instinctively, he
will hear that song again, amid sterner surroundings. When that day
comes, the song, please God, for all its sorrowful wording, will
reflect no sorrow from the hearts of those who sing it--only courage,
and the joy of battle, and the knowledge of victory.

"--And I'll be in Scotland before ye.
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonny, bonny _baanks_--"

A shrill whistle sounds far ahead. It means "March at Attention."
"Loch Lomond" dies away with uncanny suddenness--discipline is waxing
stronger every day--and tunics are buttoned and rifles unslung. Three
minutes later we swing demurely on to the barrack-square, across
which a pleasant aroma of stewed onions is wafting, and deploy with
creditable precision into the formation known as "mass." Then comes
much dressing of ranks and adjusting of distances. The Colonel is very
particular about a clean finish to any piece of work.

Presently the four companies are aligned: the N.C.O.'s retire to the
supernumerary ranks. The battalion stands rigid, facing a motionless
figure upon horseback. The figure stirs.

"Fall out, the officers!"

They come trooping, stand fast, and salute--very smartly. We must set
an example to the men. Besides, we are hungry too.