Robert Michael Ballantyne
Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan
Prudence, however, began to operate within him. He felt that he had done wrong; but it was too late now, he thought, to retrace his steps. He would, however, be on his guard; would not encourage the slightest familiarity on the part of any one, and would keep his eyes open. For a youth who had seen nothing of the world this was a highly commendable resolve.
“What’ll you drink?” asked Mr Sloper.
Miles was on the point of saying “Coffee,” but, reflecting that the beverage might not be readily obtainable in such a place, he substituted “Beer.”
Instead of calling the waiter, Mr Sloper went himself to the bar to fetch the liquor. While he was thus engaged, Miles glanced round the room, and was particularly struck with the appearance of a large, fine-looking sailor who sat at the small table next to him, with hands thrust deep into his trousers-pockets, his chin resting on his broad chest, and a solemn, owlish stare in his semi-drunken yet manly countenance. He sat alone, and was obviously in a very sulky frame of mind—a condition which he occasionally indicated through a growl of dissatisfaction.
As Miles sat wondering what could have upset the temper of a tar whose visage was marked by the unmistakable lines and dimples of good-humour, he overheard part of the conversation that passed between the barman and Mr Sloper.
“What! have they got hold o’ Rattling Bill?” asked the former, as he drew the beer.
“Ay, worse luck,” returned Sloper. “I saw the sergeant as I came along lead him over to Miss Robinson’s trap—confound her!”
“Don’t you go fur to say anything agin Miss Robinson, old man,” suddenly growled the big sailor, in a voice so deep and strong that it silenced for a moment the rest of the company. “Leastways, you may if you like, but if you do, I’ll knock in your daylights, an’ polish up your figur’-head so as your own mother would mistake you fur a battered saucepan!”
The seaman did not move from his semi-recumbent position as he uttered this alarming threat, but he accompanied it with a portentous frown and an owlish wink of both eyes.
“What! have you joined the Blue Lights?” asked Sloper, with a smile, referring to the name by which the religious and temperance men of the army were known.
“No, I ha’n’t. Better for me, p’r’aps, if I had. Here, waiter, fetch me another gin-an’-warer. An’ more o’ the gin than the warer, mind. Heave ahead or I’ll sink you!”
Having been supplied with a fresh dose of gin and water, the seaman appeared to go to sleep, and Miles, for want of anything better to do, accepted Sloper’s invitation to play a game of dominoes.
“Are the beds here pretty good?” he asked, as they were about to begin.
“Yes, first-rate—for the money,” answered Sloper.
“That’s a lie!” growled the big sailor. “They’re bad at any price—stuffed wi’ cocoa-nuts and marline-spikes.”
Mr Sloper received this observation with the smiling urbanity of a man who eschews war at all costs.
“You don’t drink,” he said after a time, referring to Miles’s pot of beer, which he had not yet touched.
Miles made no reply, but by way of answer took up the pot and put it to his lips.
He had not drunk much of it when the big seaman rose hurriedly and staggered between the two tables. In doing so, he accidentally knocked the pot out of the youth’s hand, and sent the contents into Mr Sloper’s face and down into his bosom, to the immense amusement of the company.
That man of peace accepted the baptism meekly, but Miles sprang up in sudden anger.
The seaman turned to him, however, with a benignantly apologetic smile.
“Hallo! messmate. I ax your parding. They don’t leave room even for a scarecrow to go about in this here cabin. I’ll stand you another glass. Give us your flipper!”
There was no resisting this, it was said so heartily. Miles grasped the huge hand that was extended and shook it warmly.
“All right,” he said, laughing. “I don’t mind the beer, and there’s plenty more where that came from, but I fear you have done some damage to my fr—”
“Your friend. Out with it, sir. Never be ashamed to acknowledge your friends,” exclaimed the shabby man, as he wiped his face. “Hold on a bit,” he added, rising; “I’ll have to change my shirt. Won’t keep you waitin’ long.”
“Another pot o’ beer for this ’ere gen’lem’n,” said the sailor to the barman as Sloper left the room.
Paying for the drink, he returned and put the pot on the table. Then, turning to Miles, he said in a low voice and with an intelligent look—
“Come outside for a bit, messmate. I wants to speak to ’ee.”
Miles rose and followed the man in much surprise.
“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when a few yards away from the door; “but I see that you’re green, an’ don’t know what a rascally place you’ve got into. I’ve been fleeced there myself, and yet I’m fool enough to go back! Most o’ the parties there—except the sailors an’ sodgers—are thieves an’ blackguards. They’ve drugged your beer, I know; that’s why I capsized it for you, and the feller that has got hold o’ you is a well-known decoy-duck. I don’t know how much of the ready you may have about you, but this I does know, whether it be much or little, you wouldn’t have a rap of it in the mornin’ if you stayed the night in this here house.”
“Are you sure of this, friend?” asked Miles, eyeing his companion doubtfully.
“Ay, as sure as I am that my name’s Jack Molloy.”
“But you’ve been shamming drunk all this time. How am I to know that you are not shamming friendship now?”
“No, young man,” returned the seaman with blinking solemnity. “I’m not shammin’ drunk. I on’y wish I was, for I’m three sheets in the wind at this minute, an’ I’ve a splittin’ headache due i’ the mornin’. The way as you’ve got to find out whether I’m fair an’ above-board is to look me straight in the face an’ don’t wink. If that don’t settle the question, p’r’aps it’ll convince you w’en I tells you that I don’t care a rap whether you go back to that there grog-shop or not. Only I’ll clear my conscience—leastways, wot’s left of it—by tellin’ ye that if you do—you—you’ll wish as how you hadn’t—supposin’ they leave you the power to wish anything at all.”
“Well, I believe you are a true man, Mister Molloy—”
“Don’t Mister me, mate,” interrupted the seaman.
“My name’s Jack Molloy, at your service, an’ that name don’t require no handle—either Mister or Esquire—to prop it up.”
The way in which the sailor squared his broad shoulders when he said this rendered it necessary to prop himself up. Seeing which, Miles afforded the needful aid by taking his arm in a friendly way.
“But come, let us go back,” he said. “I must pay for my beer, you know.”
“Your beer is paid for, young man,” said Molloy, stopping and refusing to move. “I paid for it, so you’ve on’y got to settle with me. Besides, if you go back you’re done for. And you’ve no call to go back to say farewell to your dear friend Sloper, for he’ll on’y grieve over the loss of your tin. As to the unpurliteness o’ the partin’—he won’t break his heart over that. No—you’ll come wi’ me down to the Sailors’ Welcome near the dock-gates, where you can get a good bed for sixpence a night, a heavy blow-out for tenpence, with a splendid readin’-room, full o’ rockin’ chairs, an’ all the rest of it for nothin’. An there’s a lavatory—that’s the name that they give to a place for cleanin’ of yourself up—a lavatory—where you can wash yourself, if you like, till your skin comes off! W’en I first putt up at the Welcome, the messmate as took me there said to me, says he, ‘Jack,’ says he, ‘you was always fond o’ water.’ ‘Right you are,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘there’s a place in the Sailors’ Welcome where you can wash yourself all day, if you like, for nothing!’
“I do b’lieve it was that as indooced me to give in. I went an’ saw this lavatory, an’ I was so took up with it that I washed my hands in every bason in the place—one arter the other—an’ used up ever so much soap, an’—would you believe it?—my hands wasn’t clean after all! Yes, it’s one the wery best things in Portsm’uth, is Miss Robinson’s Welcome—”
“Miss Robinson again!” exclaimed Miles.
“Ay—wot have you got to find fault wi’ Miss Robinson?” demanded the sailor sternly.
“No fault to find at all,” replied Miles, suffering himself to be hurried away by his new friend; “but wherever I have gone since arriving in Portsmouth her name has cropped up!”
“In Portsmouth!” echoed the sailor. “Let me tell you, young man, that wherever you go all over the world, if there’s a British soldier there, Miss Sarah Robinson’s name will be sure to crop up. Why, don’t you know that she’s ‘The Soldiers’ Friend’?”
“I’m afraid I must confess to ignorance on the point—yet, stay, now you couple her name with ‘The Soldier’s Friend,’ I have got a faint remembrance of having heard it before. Have I not heard of a Miss Weston, too, in connection with a work of some sort among sailors?”
“Ay, no doubt ye have. She has a grand Institoot in Portsm’uth too, but she goes in for sailors only—all over the kingdom—w’ereas Miss Robinson goes in for soldiers an’ sailors both, though mainly for the soldiers. She set agoin’ the Sailors’ Welcome before Miss Weston began in Portsm’uth, an’ so she keeps it up, but there ain’t no opposition or rivalry. Their aims is pretty much alike, an’ so they keep stroke together wi’ the oars. But I’ll tell you more about that when you get inside. Here we are! There’s the dock-gates, you see, and that’s Queen Street, an’ the Welcome’s close at hand. It’s a teetotal house, you know. All Miss Robinson’s Institoots is that.”
“Indeed! How comes it, then, that a man—excuse me—‘three sheets in the wind,’ can gain admittance?”
“Oh! as to that, any sailor or soldier may get admittance, even if he’s as drunk as a fiddler, if he on’y behaves his-self. But they won’t supply drink on the premises, or allow it to be brought in—’cept inside o’ you, of coorse. Cause why? you can’t help that—leastwise not without the help of a stomach-pump. Plenty o’ men who ain’t abstainers go to sleep every night at the Welcome, ’cause they find the beds and other things so comfortable. In fact, some hard topers have been indooced to take the pledge in consekince o’ what they’ve heard an’ seen in this Welcome, though they came at first only for the readin’-room an’ beds. Here, let me look at you under this here lamp. Yes. You’ll do. You’re something like a sea-dog already. You won’t object to change hats wi’ me?”
“Why?” asked Miles, somewhat amused.
“Never you mind that, mate. You just putt yourself under my orders if you’d sail comfortably before the wind. I’ll arrange matters, an’ you can square up in the morning.”
As Miles saw no particular reason for objecting to this fancy of his eccentric friend, he exchanged his soft cap for the sailor’s straw hat, and they entered the Welcome together.
Chapter Three.
The “Sailors’ Welcome”—Miles has a Night of it and Enlists—His Friend Armstrong has an Agreeable Surprise at the Soldiers’ Institute
It was not long before our hero discovered the reason of Jack Molloy’s solicitude about his appearance. It was that he, Miles, should pass for a sailor, and thus be in a position to claim the hospitality of the Sailors’ Welcome,—to the inner life of which civilians were not admitted, though they were privileged, with the public in general, to the use of the outer refreshment-room.
“Come here, Jack Molloy,” he said, leading his friend aside, when he made this discovery. “You pride yourself on being a true-blue British tar, don’t you?”
“I does,” said Jack, with a profound solemnity of decision that comported well with his character and condition.
“And you would scorn to serve under the French flag, or the Turkish flag, or the Black flag, or any flag but the Union Jack, wouldn’t you?”
“Right you are, mate; them’s my sentiments to a tee!”
“Well, then, you can’t expect me to sail under false colours any more than yourself,” continued Miles. “I scorn to sail into this port under your straw hat, so I’ll strike these colours, bid you good-bye, and make sail for another port where a civilian will be welcome.”
Molloy frowned at the floor for some moments in stern perplexity.
“You’ve took the wind out o’ my sails entirely, you have,” he replied at last; “an’ you’re right, young man, but I’m troubled about you. If you don’t run into this here port you’ll have to beat about in the offing all night, or cast anchor in the streets, for I don’t know of another lodgin’ in Portsm’uth w’ere you could hang out except them disrepitible grog-shops. In coorse, there’s the big hotels; but I heerd you say to Sloper that you was bound to do things cheap, bein’ hard up.”
“Never mind, my friend,” said Miles quickly. “I will manage somehow; so good-night, and many thanks to you for the interest you have taken in—”
“Avast, mate! there’s no call to go into action in sitch a hurry. This here Sailors’ Welcome opens the doors of its bar an’ refreshment-room, an’ spreads its purvisions before all an’ sundry as can afford to pay its moderate demands. It’s on’y the after-cabin you’re not free to. So you’ll have a bit supper wi’ me before you set sail on your night cruise.”
Being by that time rather hungry as well as fatigued, Miles agreed to remain for supper. While they were engaged with it, he was greatly impressed with the number of sailors and marines who passed into the reading-room beyond the bar, or who sat down at the numerous tables around to have a hearty supper, which they washed down with tea and coffee instead of beer or gin—apparently with tremendous appetite and much satisfaction.
“Look ye here,” said Jack Molloy, rising when their “feed” was about concluded, “I’ve no doubt they won’t object to your taking a squint at the readin’-room, though they won’t let you use it.” Following his companion, Miles passed by a glass double door into an enormous well-lighted, warm room, seventy feet long, and of proportionate width and height, in which a goodly number of men of the sea were busy as bees—some of them reading books or turning over illustrated papers and magazines, others smoking their pipes, and enjoying themselves in rocking-chairs in front of the glowing fire, chatting, laughing, and yarning as free-and-easily as if in their native fo’c’s’ls, while a few were examining the pictures on the walls, or the large models of ships which stood at one side of the room. At the upper end a full-sized billiard-table afforded amusement to several players, and profound interest to a number of spectators, who passed their comments on the play with that off-hand freedom which seems to be a product of fresh gales and salt-water. A door standing partly open at the upper end of this apartment revealed a large hall, from which issued faintly the sound of soft music.
“Ain’t it snug? and there’s no gamblin’ agoin’ on there,” remarked Molloy, as they returned to their table; “that’s not allowed—nor drinkin’, nor card-playin’, but that’s all they putt a stop to. She’s a wise woman is Miss Robinson. She don’t hamper us wi’ no rules. Why, bless you, Jack ashore would never submit to rules! He gits more than enough o’ them afloat. No; it’s liberty hall here. We may come an’ go as we like, at all hours o’ the day and night, an’ do exactly as we please, so long as we don’t smash up the furnitur’, or feed without payin’, or make ourselves a gineral noosance. They don’t even forbid swearin’. They say they leave the matter o’ lingo to our own good taste and good sense. An’ d’you know, it’s wonderful what an’ amount o’ both we’ve got w’en we ain’t worried about it! You’ll scarce hear an oath in this house from mornin’ to evenin’, though you’ll hear a deal o’ snorin’ doorin’ the night! That’s how the place takes so well, d’ee see?”
“Then the Welcome is well patronised, I suppose?”
“Patronised!” exclaimed the seaman; “that’s so, an’ no mistake. Why, mate—But what’s your name? I’ve forgot to ax you that all this time!”
“Call me Miles,” said our hero, with some hesitation.
“Call you Miles! Ain’t you Miles?”
“Well, yes, I am; only there’s more of my name than that, but that’s enough for your purpose, I daresay.”
“All right. Well, Miles, you was askin’ how the house is patronised. I’ll tell ’ee. They make up about two hundred an’ twenty beds in it altogether, an’ these are chock-full a’most every night. One way or another they had forty-four thousand men, more or less, as slep’ under this roof last year—so I’ve bin told. That’s patronisin’, ain’t it? To say nothin’ o’ the fellers as comes for—grub, which, as you’ve found, is good for the money, and the attendants is civil. You see, they’re always kind an’ attentive here, ’cause they professes to think more of our souls than our bodies—which we’ve no objection to, d’ee see, for the lookin’ arter our souls includes the lookin’ arter our bodies! An’ they don’t bother us in no way to attend their Bible-readin’s an’ sitchlike. There they are in separate rooms; if you want ’em you may go; if you don’t, you can let ’em alone. No compulsion, which comes quite handy to some on us, for I don’t myself care much about sitchlike things. So long’s my body’s all right, I leaves my soul to look arter itself.”
As the seaman said this with a good-natured smile of indifference, there sprang to the mind of his young companion words that had often been impressed on him by his mother: “What shall it profit a man if he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” but he made no reference to this at the time.
“Hows’ever,” continued Molloy, “as they don’t worrit us about religion, except to give us a good word an’ a blessin’ now an’ again, and may-hap a little book to read, we all patronises the house; an it’s my opinion if it was twice as big as it is we’d fill it chock-full. I would board as well as sleep in it myself—for it’s full o’ conveniences, sitch as lockers to putt our things in, an’ baths, and what not, besides all the other things I’ve mentioned—but the want o’ drink staggers me. I can’t git along without a drop o’ drink.”
Miles thought that his nautical friend appeared to be unable to get along without a good many drops of drink, but he was too polite to say so.
“Man alive!” continued Jack Molloy, striking his huge fist on his thigh with emphasis; “it’s a wonderful place is this Welcome! An’ it’s a lively place too. Why, a fellow hanged his-self in one o’ the bunks overhead not long ago.”
“You don’t mean that?” exclaimed Miles, rather shocked.
“In course I does. But they heard ’im gaspin’, an cut him down in time to save him. It was drink they say as made him do it, and they got him to sign the pledge arterwards. I believe he’s kep’ it too. Leastwise I know many a hard drinker as have bin indooced to give it up and stuck to it—all through comin’ here to have a snooze in a comfortable hunk. They give the bunks names—cubicles they calls ’em in the lump. Separately, there’s the ‘Commodore Goodenough Cot,’ an’ the ‘Little Nellie Cot,’ an’ the ‘Sunshine Cot’—so called ’cause it hain’t got a port-hole to let in the daylight at all; and the ‘Billy Rough ’un’—”
“The what?”
“‘The Billy Rough ’un’—arter the ship o’ that name, you know—”
“Oh! you mean the Bellerophon.”
“Well, young man, an’ didn’t I say the ‘Billy Rough ’un’? Then there’s the— But what’s your hurry?” said the seaman, as Miles rose.
“It’s getting late now, friend. If I’m to find another lodging I must be off. Doubtless, I’ll find some respectable house to take me in for the night.” Miles suppressed a yawn as he put on his cap.
“I don’t believe you will,” returned Molloy, also rising, and giving full vent to a sympathetic and vociferous yawn. “Hows’ever, w’en a young feller insists on havin’ his way, it’s best to give him plenty of cable and let him swing. He’s sure to find out his mistake by experience. But look ye here, Miles, I’ve took a fancy to you, an’ I’d be sorry to think you was in difficulties. If,” he continued, thrusting a hand into his breeches-pocket, and bringing up therefrom a mass of mixed gold, silver, and copper—“if you don’t objec’ to accep’ of a loan of—”
“Thank you—no, my friend. It is very kind of you,” said Miles quickly; “but I have quite enough for present necessities. So good-night.”
“All right,” returned the sailor, thrusting the money back into his pocket. “But if you should ever want a jaw with Jack Molloy while you’re in this here port you’ve only got to hail him at the Sailors’ Welcome, an’ if he should happen to be out, they always can tell you where he’s cruisin’. Good-night, an’ luck go wi’ ye!”
Another tremendous yawn finished the speech, and next moment Miles found himself in the street, oppressed with a strange and miserable sensation which he had never before experienced. Indeed, he had to lean against the house for a few minutes after coming out into the fresh air, and felt as if the power of connected thought was leaving him.
He was aroused from this condition by the flashing of a light in his eyes. Opening them wide, he beheld a policeman looking at him earnestly.
“Now, then, young fellow,” said the guardian of the night; “d’you think you can take care of yourself?”
“Oh! yes, quite well. It’s only a giddy feeling that came over me. I’m all right,” said Miles, rousing himself and passing on.
He staggered slightly, however, and a short “Humph!” from the policeman showed that he believed the youth to be something more than giddy.
Ashamed to be even unjustly supposed to be intoxicated, Miles hurried away, wondering very much what could be the matter with him, for he had not tasted a drop of strong drink, except the half-glass of beer he had swallowed before Molloy chanced to knock it out of his hand. Suddenly he remembered that the sailor had said the beer was drugged. If he could have asked the barman who had served him, that worthy could have told him that this was true; that the whole glassful, if swallowed, would, ere long, have rendered him insensible, and that what he had already taken was enough to do him considerable damage.
As he walked onward, he became rapidly worse; the people and the streets seemed to swim before him; an intense desire to sleep overpowered every other feeling, and at last, turning into a dark entry, he lay down and pillowed his head on a door-step. Here he was found by a policeman; a stretcher was fetched, and he was conveyed to the station as “drunk and incapable!”
When brought before the Inspector the following morning, shame and reckless despair were the tenants of his breast. Those tenants were not expelled, but rather confirmed in possession, when the Inspector—after numerous questions, to which Miles returned vague unsatisfactory replies—adopted the rôle of the faithful friend, and gave him a great deal of paternal advice, especially with reference to the avoidance of strong drink and bad companions.
Miles had the wisdom, however, to conceal his feelings, and to take the reproof and advice in good part. Afterwards, on being set free, he met a recruiting sergeant, who, regarding him as a suitable subject for the service of her Majesty, immediately laid siege to him. In his then state of mind the siege was an easy one. In short, he capitulated at once and entered the Queen’s service, under the name of John Miles.
We need scarcely say that his heart misgave him, that his conscience condemned him, and that, do what he would, he could not shut out the fact that his taking so hasty and irrevocable a step was a poor return for all the care and anxiety of his parents in years gone by. But, as we have said, or hinted, Miles was one of those youths who, when they have once made up their minds to a certain course of action, fancy that they are bound to pursue it to the end. Hence it was that he gave his name as John Miles instead of Miles Milton, so that he might baffle any inquiries as to what had become of him.
Once enlisted, he soon began to realise the fact that he was no longer a free agent—at least not in the sense in which he had been so up to that period of his life. Constant drill was the order of the day for some weeks; for there was a demand for more troops for Egypt at the time, and regiments were being made up to their full strength as fast as possible.
During this period Miles saw little of his companions in arms personally, save that group of recruits who were being “licked into shape” along with him. At first he was disappointed with these, for most of them were shy, unlettered men; some, raw lads from the country; and others, men who seemed to have been loafers before joining, and were by no means attractive.
The drill-sergeant, however, was a good, though stern man, and soon recognised the differences in character, aptitude, and willingness among his raw recruits. This man, whose name was Hardy, made a powerful impression on our hero from the first; there was something so quiet and even gentle about him, in spite of his firm and inflexible demands in regard to the matters of drill and duty. To please this man, Miles gave himself heart and soul to his work, and was soon so efficient as to be allowed to join the regiment.
And here he found, to his surprise and satisfaction, that the sergeant and young soldier with whom he had travelled to Portsmouth were members of the company to which he was attached. As we have said, Miles had taken a great fancy at first sight to the young private, whose name was William Armstrong. Our hero was of an affectionate disposition, and would have allowed his warm feelings to expend themselves on a dog rather than have denied them free play. No wonder, then, that he was attracted by the handsome manly countenance and deferential manner of Armstrong, who, although an uneducated youth, and reared in the lower ranks of life, was gifted with those qualities of the true gentleman which mere social position can neither bestow nor take away. His intellect also was of that active and vigorous fibre which cannot be entirely repressed by the want of scholastic training.
The affection was mutual, for the contrasts and similarities of the two men were alike calculated to draw them together. Both were tall, broad, square-shouldered, erect, and soldierly, yet, withal, modest as well in demeanour as in feeling, and so exactly like to each other in size and figure, and in the quiet gravity of their expressions, that they might well have been taken for twin brothers. When, in uniform, the two strode along the streets of Portsmouth, people were apt to turn and look at them, and think, no doubt, that with many such men in the British army it would go hard with the foes of Old England!
The bond of union was still further strengthened by the fact that while the comparatively learned Miles was enthusiastic and communicative, the unlettered Armstrong was inquisitive and receptive, fond of prying into the nature of things, and always ready as well as competent to discuss—not merely to argue. Observe the distinction, good reader. Discussion means the shaking of any subject into its component parts with a desire to understand it. Argument has come very much to signify the enravelment of any subject with a view to the confusion and conquest of an opponent. Both young men abhorred the latter and liked the former. Hence much of their harmony and friendship.
“Will you come with me up town?” said Armstrong to Miles one day, as he was about to quit the barrack-room. “I’m going to see if there’s any news of my Emmy.”
“I did not know you expected her,” said Miles. “Come along, I’m ready.”
“I don’t expect her yet,” returned Armstrong, as they left the barracks; “I only look for a letter, because it was on Wednesday that I wrote telling her of my going to Egypt, and she can scarce have had time to get ready to come down, poor girl! In fact I am going to engage a room for her. By the way, I heard this morning that there’s to be another draft for Egypt, so you’ll have a chance to go.”
“I’m rejoiced to hear it,” returned Miles; “for, to say the truth, I had been growing envious of your good fortune in being ordered on active service.”
“Hooroo, Armstrong, where away now?” cried an unmistakably Irish voice, as a smart little soldier crossed the street to them, and was introduced to Miles as Corporal Flynn, belonging to another company in his own regiment.
“My blissin’ on ye, Miles. John, is it?”
“Yes, John,” replied our hero, much amused at the free-and-easy address of the little corporal.
“Well, John Miles,” he said, “I don’t know whether ye’ll laugh or cry whin I tell ye that you’ll likely be warned this evenin’ for the draft that’s goin’ to Aigypt.”
“I certainly won’t cry,” returned Miles, with a laugh. Yet the news brought a sudden feeling into his breast which was strongly allied to the opposite of laughter, for the thought of parting from father and mother without bidding them farewell fell upon his spirit with crushing weight; but, like too many men who know they are about to do wrong, Miles hardened his heart with the delusive argument that, having fairly taken the step, it was impossible for him now to retrace it. He knew—at least he thought—that there was still the possibility of being bought off, and that his stern father would only be too glad to help him. He also knew that at least he had time to write and let them know his circumstances, so that they might run down to Portsmouth and bid him good-bye; but he had taken the bit in his teeth, and now he resolved to abide the consequences.
Turning from his companions while they conversed, he looked into a shop-window.
“Your chum’s in the blues,” said the lively corporal, in a lower voice.
“Young fellows are often in that state after joining, ain’t they?” returned Armstrong.
“True for ye—an’ more shame to them, whin they ought to be as proud as paycocks at wearin’ her gracious Majesty’s uniform. But good luck to ’ee! I must be off, for I’m bound for Aigypt mesilf.”
“I am glad that I shall have the chance of seeing your wife, for I’ve been much interested in her since your friend Sergeant Gilroy told me about her,” said Miles, as they resumed their walk. “Surely it is hard of them to refuse to let her go with the regiment.”
