The ruminant ponders. "Seeven fower ought seeven seeven," he announces, after a prolonged mental effort. The instructor raises clenched hands to heaven. "Man, I'm no askin' you your regimental number! Never heed that. It's your number in the squad I'm seeking. You numbered off frae the right five minutes syne." Ultimately it transpires that the culprit's number is ten. He is pushed into his place, in company with the other even numbers, and the squad finds itself approximately in fours. "Forrm-two deep!" barks the instructor. The fours disentangle themselves reluctantly, Number Ten being the last to forsake his post. "Now we'll dae it jist yince more, and have it right," announces the instructor, with quite unjustifiable optimism.