“Well, hardly,” said the latter, his face lighting up with a frank smile. “But never mind that; I only wanted to tell you that we’re a sprinkle of Englishmen among hundreds of thousands of fierce, fighting bullies, and we’ve got to set up our chins and swagger, and let every one see that we’re the masters. We don’t want milksops in the Flying Artillery.”
“And you think that’s what I am,” said Dick contemptuously.
“That I just don’t, shrimp. No, Dicky, I think quite t’other way on, and I’m a bit of a judge. I shall go back to Hulton and tell him you’ll do.”
“Thanks. But who’s Hulton? Stop, I know—the captain I met last night at the mess.”
“‘Who’s Hulton?’ Hark at the young heathen!” cried the visitor. “He’s your captain, my lad—captain of our troop, the finest troop of the grandest corps in the world. Now you know Hulton and the character of your troop. Don’t you feel proud?”
“Not a bit,” said Dick.
The young man reached forward and gave Dick a sounding slap on the shoulder.
“That settles it!” he cried. “I was right before. Yes, you’ll do. So now, then, let’s set to work.”
“To work? Now?”
“Yes; Hulton told me to come and look you up. ‘Go and see the young cub, and try and lick him into shape,’ he said.”