Weyburn rejoiced to find himself transcribing crisp sentences, hard on the matter, without garnish of scorn.

Kent, Sussex, Surrey, all the southern heights about London, round away to the south-western of the Hampshire heathland, were accurately mapped in the old warrior's brain.

He knew his points of vantage by name; there were no references to gazetteer or atlas.

A chain of forts and earthworks enables us to choose our ground, not for clinging to them, but for choice of time and place to give battle.

If we have not been playing double-dyed traitor to ourselves, we have a preponderating field artillery; our yeomanry and volunteer horsemen are becoming a serviceable cavalry arm; our infantry prove that their heterogeneous composition can be welded to a handy mass, and can stand fire and return it, and not be beaten by an acknowledged defeat.
'That's English! yes, that's English! when they're at it,' my lord sang out.
'To know how to take a licking, that wins in the end,' cried Weyburn; his former enthusiasm for the hero mounting, enlightened by a reminiscence of the precept he had hammered on the boys at Cuper's.
'They fall well.