I
The Gentleman was walking away into the sunset.
The Parson turned from the dormer, and his eyes were wet.
"And, now, my boy," he cried, "you know what a gentleman is."
The words loosed the fountains of laughter in the lad's heart.
"I thought, sir, that you said—"
"You thought wrong," snapped the Parson. "I said nothing of the sort."
He swung round on Blob and kicked him.
"What fur why?" whimpered Blob.
"Teach you!" cried the Parson. "Want some more, eh? Then behave yourself. I'm sick o your nonsense."
He reached up to the rafter.
"Eat and sleep—that's the whole duty of man just at present. Blob, take Piper his rations, and ask him to forgive an old soldier who's a bit short in the temper in action—and do the same yourself, my boy. Here, Kit."
They snatched a hasty meal.
Outside the dusk was falling.
The Parson brushed the crumbs off his cravat.
"And now will you take first watch, or shall I?"
"I will, sir. I don't feel like sleep."
"Very well. Wake me when the moon dips behind the Downs, or earlier if there's a sign of the soldiers."
Kit took his post at the dormer. The other slipped off his coat.
"I'm not much of a Parson as you may have found out," he muttered, "still I am an Englishman." And he plumped down on his knees defiantly.
His was a very short and simple prayer; the prayer tens of thousands of Englishmen were praying from their hearts at that time.
Kneeling in his shirt, Polly shining before him against the wall, he repeated it most earnestly.
The whispered words, so simple and heart-felt, reached the ears of the boy at the dormer.
"God bless our dear country; and God d—- the French."
The waters of laughter came roaring up the boy's throat, and surged over, irresistible.
The Parson rose from his knees, and scowled at the lad's shaking shoulders.
"I suppose they're too proud to pray in his Service," he sneered. "Pack o pirates!" He took off his coat and folded it with thumps. "Yet I know one sailor who's not above paying his respects to his Maker—and that's Lord Nelson, of whom you may have heard. Seen him myself in the trenches at Calvi. I remember a great buck of a Dragoon Guardsman asking him,
"'Why d'you pray, little man?' 'Why,' says Nelson, simple as a child, 'because mother taught me.' Yes, sir," fiercely, "and that's why I pray—and jolly good reason too."
"Did she teach you that prayer?" asked Kit demurely.
"Bah! blurry young tarry-breeks!" muttered the other; and curling on the floor, his rolled jacket beneath his head, the old campaigner was off to sleep, Polly fair and faithful beside him.