He was dressed in the regulation winter uniform of the Force, consisting
of a scarlet-serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding breeches with the broad
yellow stripe down the side, thick black woollen stockings reaching to
the knee, and buckskin moccasins with spurs attached. Over the
stockings, and rolled tightly down upon the tops of the moccasins as
snow-excluders, were a pair of heavy gray socks.

Wriggling out of his tightly-fitting red serge he carelessly flung that
article onto the next cot; then, filling and lighting a pipe, he
stretched out comfortably upon his own. With hands clasped behind his
head he lazily watched the two previously-mentioned men at their cleaning
operations, his expressive face registering indolent but mischievous
interest, as he listened to their wrangling.

"No!" resumed one of the twain emphatically, apropos of some previous
contention, "No, by gum! this division ain't what it used to be in them
days."

He gave vent to a reminiscent sigh as he spat upon and rubbed up some
powdered brick-dust.

"Billy Herchmer was O.C., Fred Bagley was Sergeant-Major--and there was
Harry Hetherington, Ralph Bell, De Barre, Jeb Browne, Pennycuik, and all
them old-timers. Eyah! th' times that was! th' times that was! Force's
all filled up now mostly with 'Smart Aleck' kids, like Reddy, here,
an'"--he shot a glance of calculating invitation at his vis-a-vis,
Hardy--"'old sweats' from the Old Country Imperials."

Artfully to start some trivial but decidedly inflammable barrack-room
argument was one of Corporal Dave McCullough's pet diversions. At this