‘Larkinses? They don’t stop here. Been gone these years. Where? How do I know? They got the route right enough; that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Was there no one in the barracks who could tell him?’ Herbert asked.
‘No,’ said the woman, abruptly, and shut the door in his face.
The sentry would not let him pass the inner gates. The gate sergeant, who came up, peremptory and consequential, was still more inhospitable. Whom did Herbert want? A barrack sergeant of the name of Larkins? There was no such name in the garrison.
‘Better write to the Secretary of State for War, my man,’ said the gate sergeant with gruff condescension, ‘or to the Archbishop of Canterbury. One’s as likely to tell you as another. But you must clear out of this. Can’t have no loiterers about here. Them’s my orders. May be the adjutant or the sergeant-major’ll come this way, and I don’t choose to be blamed for you.’
‘What regiment do you belong to?’ asked Herbert.
‘Can’t you see for yourself?’ Where could this young man have been raised not to recognise the uniform of the Duke’s Own Fusiliers?
‘Is it a good corps?’
The sergeant was aghast at the fellow’s impudence. Like every soldier of the old school, he had been brought up to believe that his regiment was not only a good one, but the very best in the service.