"What?" asked Montague.
"Soldiering—a dollar ten a day, short hours, and no work—what ho!"
"Do you mean to say you like it?" asked Montague, wishing his companion reeked a little less of his recent exertions.
"Why not like it?" said Private Waller. "We're in it, ain't we?"
"I suppose so," said the other shortly.
Private Waller rubbed his hands together. "He's a sergeant, ain't he?"
"Do you mean that strutting bounder who drilled us to-day?"
"Lordee! don't let him hear you say that." The little man went pale at the thought. "Say, if you don't like him, just wait until you see Sergeant-Major 'Awkins."
A cockney of even ten years' Canadian citizenship loses his h's when excited. Montague began to wince under it, and wished a dozen times that his companion would hold his tongue and give him a chance to think, to separate the varied experiences of the day, and to edit his thoughts. He shrugged his shoulders and acknowledged the greeting of Mrs. Merryweather from a huge motor-car. Waller's eyes bulged.
"I say, you know some swells, don't you? What was you—a chauffeur?"