‘Then chuck this fooling and turn in, or—hic—you’ll get something.’ He sat on his bed and took off his cap. ‘Callon, Callon, where are you?’ he cried.
‘Here,’ replied that youth.
‘Come here. How many more times shall I tell you you’re to be here when I come in? Get off my boots.’
Trumpeter Gallon came and knelt down by Napper, tugging at the studs which fastened the straps of his overalls down under his boots.
‘Now, then, you young bungler, look sharp; we’ll have lights out in a minute.’
Callon made an effort, undid the stud, and managed to tug off the Wellington boot. He was engaged on the other, Napper holding out his leg, when the boy caught hold of the toe of the boot to pull it off.
‘You clumsy beast!’ cried Napper savagely, ‘I tell you every night to mind my corn.’
With these words he kicked out his foot savagely, the spur catching Callon on the chin, which it badly pricked, and the heel striking him on the mouth and cutting his lips.
Callon uttered a cry and reeled backwards, on which one or two of the trumpeters who had seen what had happened cried ‘Shame!’ and ‘Coward!’
‘Here, draw it mild, Napper,’ said one of the older trumpeters, named Brittain; ‘you don’t want to kick a fellow’s teeth down his throat.’