“You’ve got your change, old man, and no mistake,” returned the woman, giving him a playful push in the chest which sent him reeling against the wall. “Why, you’re screwed, old man,” and added, “You’re a nice sort of gineral, ain’t ye?”
The clowns, who invariably join with the stronger side, hailed their hero’s discomfiture with loud shouts of derisive laughter, and closing fearlessly round him, chanted the cynical refrain—
A sargint stepp’d up to me, and asked me for to ’list,
I bid him stand back, and I showed him then my fist,
Tooral rooral, tooral la.
The sergeant was a big bulky man, but owing to sundry potations he was a little groggy on his pins. He, however, felt very much inclined to give his assailant a sharp box on the ear, but the chances were if he did so that he would raise the ire of the male portion of the assembled throng, and prudence directed him to pass the matter over as lightly and good-humouredly as possible.
“A woman’s more than a match for the best of us, mates,” he said in a jocular manner. “My principle is to let them have their own way. I never argufy with ’em—am too old a soldier for that.”
“That’s the way to serve out them ’listin’ sargents,” cried the woman, taking no heed of the last observations made by the gallant son of Mars. “They bring more sorrow and heartaches upon the poor than all the tax gatherers and squires’ stewards can do. Why, Willy, you ha’ got gay ribbons on to-day,” she ejaculated, catching sight of a young man who was known to her in the crowd. “Hast caught a master with all thy finery?”
“Don’t you know the British colours, my girl?” said an old soldier, standing by. “Your Willy has enlisted.”
Her countenance now wore a troubled expression.