"Squoad--'_Shun!_ Move to the right in fours. Forrm--_fourrrs!_"
The audience addressed looks up with languid curiosity, but makes no
attempt to comply with the speaker's request.
"Come away now, come away!" urges the instructor, mopping his brow.
"Mind me: on the command 'form fours,' odd numbers will stand fast;
even numbers tak' a shairp pace to the rear and anither to the right.
Now--forrm _fourrs!_"
The squad stands fast, to a man. Apparently--nay, verily--they are all
odd numbers.
The instructor addresses a gentleman in a decayed Homburg hat, who is
chewing tobacco in the front rank.
"Yous, what's your number?"
The ruminant ponders.
"Seeven fower ought seeven seeven," he announces, after a prolonged
mental effort.
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