The fours disentangle themselves reluctantly, Number Ten being the
last to forsake his post.

"Now we'll dae it jist yince more, and have it right," announces the
instructor, with quite unjustifiable optimism. "Forrm--_fourrs!_"

This time the result is better, but there is confusion on the left
flank.

"Yon man, oot there on the left," shouts the instructor, "what's your
number?"

Private Mucklewame, whose mind is slow but tenacious, answers--not
without pride at knowing--

"Nineteen!"

(Thank goodness, he reflects, odd numbers stand fast upon all
occasions.)

"Weel, mind this," says the sergeant--"Left files is always even
numbers, even though they are odd numbers."

This revelation naturally clouds Private Mucklewame's intellect for
the afternoon; and he wonders dimly, not for the first time, why he
ever abandoned his well-paid and well-fed job as a butcher's assistant
in distant Wishaw ten long days ago.

And so the drill goes on. All over the drab, dusty, gritty