"Maybe he'll tak' a closer look at us," suggested an optimist in the
rear rank. "He micht walk doon the line."
"Walk? No him!" replied Private M'Slattery. "He'll be awa' hame in the
motor. Hae ony o' you billies gotten a fag?"
There was a smothered laugh. The officers of the battalion were
standing rigidly at attention in front of A Company. One of these
turned his head sharply.
"No talking in the ranks there!" he said. "Sergeant, take that man's
name."
Private M'Slattery, rumbling mutiny, subsided, and devoted his
attention to the movements of the Royal motor-car.
Then the miracle happened.
The great car rolled smoothly from the saluting-base, over the
undulating turf, and came to a standstill on the extreme right of the
line, half a mile away. There descended a slight figure in khaki. It
was the King--the King whom Private M'Slattery had never seen. Another
figure followed, and another.
"Herself iss there too!" whinnied an excited Highlander on
M'Slattery's right. "And the young leddy! Pless me, they are all for
walking town the line on their feet. And the sun so hot in the sky! We
shall see them close!"
Private M'Slattery gave a contemptuous sniff.
The excited battalion was called to a sense of duty by the voice of
authority. Once more the long lines stood stiff and rigid--waiting,
waiting, for their brief glimpse.
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