"Stand to attention, damn you! Don't you know how to stand to
attention?" I shifted my feet a little uneasily, wondering how he wanted
me to stand.
"Put those heels together," he snorted. I did so. "Keep your toes
apart," he half hissed and half shouted. I spread my toes apart. I still
had my arms folded. Almost purple in the face with his violence, he
roared, "Put those damned hands of yours down!" and he grabbed my wrists
and flopped them down. "Young lady, you'll have to take this matter up
at Valcartier; there is no time to do anything now. You can go," this
to me. I turned on my heel.
"Here," he roared. "Don't you know enough to salute your superior
officer? Salute!" I gingerly raised my hand to my forehead and held it
there, much after the fashion, I think, of a man shading his eyes from
the sun, or a nautical chap gazing intently seaward.
"You idiot!" he bellowed, as he grabbed my hand and fiercely flung it
down. "Don't you know how to salute? Here, do this"--and he saluted. I
followed as well as I was able, but the utter disgust that was plastered
all over his visage as he turned on his heel would not have left much
hope for soldierly qualifications in one any less hopeful and
enthusiastic than I was.
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