Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of cloud to
a chorus of "Strong right! Strong left!" or Hogan-Yale of the
White Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the
price of horseshoes thrown in; or "Tick" Boileau, trying to live
up to his fierce blue and gold turban while the wasps of the
Bengal Cavalry stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long,
lollopping Walers of the White Hussars.

They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little
thrill run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle
of the empty cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after
the roar of the volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear
that sound in action. The review ended in a glorious chase across
the plain - batteries thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust
of the White Hussars, and the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a
Sikh Regiment till the lean, lathy Singhs panted with exhaustion.
Bobby was dusty and dripping long before noon, but his enthusiasm
was merely focused - not diminished.

He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his "skipper," that is
to say, the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the
dark art and mystery of managing men, which is a very large part
of the Profession of Arms.

"If you haven't a taste that way," said Revere between his puffs
of his cheroot, "you'll never be able to get the hang of it, but
remember, Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, though drill is nearly
everything, that hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the
other side. It's the man who knows how to handle men - goat-men,
swine-men, dog-men, and so on."