174 The Light That Failed “Felt it. Oh, my men! — my beautiful men!” He edged forward as though he could see. “I could draw those chaps once. Who'll draw ’em now?” “They’ll move off in a minute. Don’t jump when the band begins.” “Huh! I’m not a new charger. It’s the silences that hurt. Nearer, Torp! — nearer! Oh, my God, what wouldn’t I give to see em for a minute! — one half-minute!” He could hear the armed life almost within reach of him, could hear the slings tighten across the bandsman’s chest as he heaved the big drum from the ground. “Sticks crossed above his head,” whispered Torpenhow. “T know. J know! Who should know if I don’t? H’sh!” The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the men swung forward to the crash of the band. Dick felt the wind of the massed movement in his face, heard the maddening tramp of feet and the friction of the pouches on the belts. The big drum pounded out the tune. It was a music-hall refrain that made a perfect quickstep — He must be a man of decent height, He must be a man of weight, He must come home on a Saturday night In a thoroughly sober state; He must know how to love me, And he must know how to kiss; And if he’s enough to keep us both I can’t refuse him bliss. “What's the matter?” said Torpenhow, as he saw Dick’s head fall when the last of the regiment had departed. “Nothing. I feel a little bit out of the running, —