The days that followed were busy and slid past with a certain
monotony, notwithstanding their varied routine. From morning stables
at seven until evening stables at six, each hour held its duty, for
in that regular, clock-marked life, recreation was counted a duty
just as surely as were the daily drills.
Carew, trained on the football field, took to the foot drill as a
duck takes to water. Weldon was in his glory on mounted parade. One
summer spent on an Alberta ranch had taught him the tricks of the
broncho-buster, and five o'clock invariably found him pirouetting
across the parade ground on the back of the most vicious mount to be
found within the limits of Maitland. More than once there had been a
breathless pause while the entire squadron had waited to watch the
killing of Trooper Weldon; more than once there had been an utterly
profane pause while the officers had waited for Trooper Weldon to
bring his bolting steed back into some semblance of alignment. The
pause always ended with Weldon upright in his saddle, his face
beaming with jovial smiles and his horse ranged up with mathematical
precision. The delays were by no means helpful to discipline.
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