‘Now you’re talking!’ said Parkes. ‘You’re the man I want to meet every time I’m for guard. Can you black boots?’
‘Yes.’
‘Clean them, then,’ and he pointed to his Wellingtons. ‘You’ll find the blacking and brushes in my valise.’
Jack set to work, whistling gaily, and soon produced a polish that made Parkes smile.
‘Old Jimmy’ll reckon I’ve turned over a new leaf,’ he said.
He showed Jack how to polish the plate on the front of his lance-cap, and the chin-chain, and when he had done this Jack could not resist the temptation of putting the cap on and surveying himself in the bit of looking-glass, four inches square, fastened on the wall at the head of Parkes’ bed.
‘Feel big, eh?’ queried the trumpeter.
‘Not very,’ said Jack; ‘but it’s a handsome headdress.’
‘Wait till you’ve worn one six hours at a stretch on a broiling-hot day, then tell me how you like it,’ grinned Parkes.
The whole of his accoutrements being cleaned, that youth jerked out a brief ‘Thanks!’ then put down his bed, and throwing himself on it composed himself for a nap. Before he sank quite into the land of dreams he suddenly started up and said, ‘Didn’t I hear your name was Blair?’