The man smiled and looked knowing.
"Orficers' mess grub better'n we do, yer know," he replied, winking with the whole side of his face.
"Yes, I dare say they do, but that's got nothing to do with it," said George.
"Ho, 'asn't it! They tells me as you are a-goin' to be made a horsifer."
Our hero laughed, and the man looked offended.
"No, no, that's wrong. You know, I'm not English, they can't do that—besides, there's no reason for it."
"Well, now, I never thought o' that," replied the cook, somewhat crestfallen. "But they're a-goin' to do somethin' for yer; everybody's a-talkin' about 'ow you got them guns up the 'ill, and I sez, right yer are, I sez, 'e's a chap as deserves to git hon."
George was quite confused at the man's praise, and, to avoid more of it, said good-bye and left the kitchen. What he had heard had opened his eyes. Now he knew the meaning of his morning's greetings from the strangers he had passed. Apparently he was looked upon as a sort of hero—well, he hoped they would find him something to do to prove their belief in him.
Cutting across the parade ground towards the office, where his duties as interpreter required him, he was met by an orderly sergeant.
"Mornin', Mr. Helmar. I was just coming to look for you. You're wanted at the office. I think," he went on, impressively, "there's a little trip on hand and you are to go on it."