Some of the men laughed and nodded, and the sergeant went off in search.
No one took any notice of Herbert, as he sat upon the edge of his iron cot at the far end of the room. Everybody seemed busy with his own affairs.
But presently some one near the door shouted, ‘Why, here’s “the Boy”! Duke’s Own! “’Tchun,”’ giving the word of command as though an officer was approaching.
It was only a wizened little man, who might have been fifty or barely five. He hadn’t a hair on his fresh coloured cheeks, but they were much wrinkled as though he were prematurely aged.
Boy Hanlon was one of the oldest soldiers in the regiment. He had been in it all his life from the time they had picked him up like a waif or stray on the line of march between Exeter and Plymouth till now, when he had upwards of twenty years’ service, and was growing grey-haired. He had begun as a boy in the band, thence he went to the drums; by-and-bye he became a bugler, from which, although barely of the standard height, he had been passed into the ranks. Now, as a veteran who knew his rights and what was due to himself, he gave himself great airs. No one was half so well acquainted as he was with professional topics. He could tell you the names of all the officers past and present, in the Duke’s Own; he was a keen critic upon drill from his own point of view—somewhere in the rear rank of one of the central companies; he could pipeclay belts to perfection, and had not his equal with brass ball, heel ball, boot-blacking, button stick and brush. But the chief source of his pride were his confidential relations with Colonel Prioleau, the present commanding officer. The two had ‘soldiered’ together all these years, in every clime, and knew each other thoroughly. More, they had stood side by side at the battle of Goojerat, where the Duke’s Own had fought remarkably well, and they were the only two survivors of that glorious day. ‘Boy’ Hanlon—he got his soubriquet of course from his insignificant size—traded a good deal on that battle of Goojerat. He was perpetually celebrating the victory. For one single battle it had an extraordinary number of anniversaries. Whenever ‘the Boy’ was thirsty—and with him drought was perennial—he turned up at the orderly room and told the colonel it was a fine morning ‘for the day.’
‘What day?’ old Prioleau would ask with pretended ignorance, although he knew and really enjoyed the joke.
‘The great day, of course, colonel; the day of Goojerat.’
‘Why, it was that only three weeks ago; surely—’