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ARTY, ’shun! Left-turn! You will parade again at 2.15 in full equipment. Party, dis-miss!”

The fifty big men turned to their right, slapped their rifles, and broke off by twos and threes towards their billet. As they went in, one splendid-looking boy of nineteen or twenty seized a friend by the waist and brought him down after a short struggle.

“You look out, De Wet,” said his Sergeant, an English Highlander, “or you’ll be too tired to get at the Germans.”

The boy looked up, flashing a smile at him.

“Tired? I’ll no get tired,” he said, “this is chust ma trainin’,” and followed the rest into the billet.

Their two officers stood watching them as they went.

“My God, Charles,” said the Senior Subaltern, “aren’t they great? God help any Bosche that meets those lads. They’re just as fit and happy as they can be. I feel top-hole, too, don’t you? I don’t see that there’s anything can spoil it.”