They were in the tailor’s shop together with a hurried Sergeant standing over them.
The aristocratic Paddy pulled on his trousers with a heavy sigh.
‘The livery,’ said he, ‘of me degradation.’
‘It is the Queen’s uniform,’ said Polson, ‘and you have a right to be proud to wear it.’
The child of Erin buttoned his stable jacket and went out to drill, and Polson gave him a purposed double dose of labour. He had given orders to an individual man here and there, but until he became a dragoon he had never commanded a crowd, and there is something in that which makes either a man or a sweep of the commander. Polson was all alert, eager to teach what he knew to the slow and loutish squad before him; but on that first morning of his wearing the Queen’s cloth, keen as he was upon his own business, he could not help recognising a certain pair of flea-bitten greys which swept through the barrack gate whilst he was at work some fifty yards away. They came from the Bar-field Arms, and he had helped the man who now drove them in their breaking, four or five years ago.
There was a cry of ‘Guard, tarn out!’ and a clash of salute as the carriage rolled through the gates without a challenge, and the man who sat at the back, disdaining the cushions, and with a lustrous silk hat cocked over one eyebrow, was his father. John Jervase came into barracks, as he had gone everywhere throughout his life, with a magnificent impudence, and he distributed salutes to all and sundry from a majestic forefinger; whilst his only son watched him with a sardonic eye as he bowled up to the officers’ quarters.
The card of Mr. John Jervase was carried to Colonel Stacey, and Colonel Stacey was ready to receive Mr. Jervase in a flash.
‘I am told, sir,’ said Mr. Jervase, in that bluff, John-Bull way of his, which had brought a hundred people to his net, ‘that the regiment has its marching orders, and I can quite believe that you’ve got something better to do than to listen to anything I have to say.’
‘I’m pressed for time, sir,’ said the Colonel. ‘The regiment marches in an hour.’
‘Here’s a lad of mine, sir,’ said Jervase, ‘has enlisted. And here is a letter from Kirby & Sons, the well-known Army agents, telling me they’ve got my cheque for his commission. It’s been the hope of my heart to see the lad in the army, and it’s been his hope also. We’ve had a quarrel, sir, and I don’t mind confessing that it is my fault. The lad’s a good lad.’ His voice began to tremble. ‘But he’s throwing his life away for a freak. I’ve bowt his commission, and here’s the letter from the London agents to say that the whole thing is complete. I know he’s here, for I heard him as I crossed the barrack square. I’d like you to help me to bring him back to reason.’