The young soldier held out his arm, upon which the regimental tailor had sewn a patch of very shabby cloth, bearing the three stripes of the sergeant’s rank, the thing itself being a weather-stained rag.
“I congratulate you, my lad, with all my heart.”
“I knew you would, sir. Ain’t much to look at, sir, to some people. We shall get fresh togs served out some day; but I don’t believe the noo stripes ’ll shine out half so bright as these here do, sir, to me.”
Bracy sighed.
“Can’t help feeling as proud as a dog with two tails—ought to say three, sir, because that’s the number of the stripes. But somehow I don’t feel as I thought I should.”
“I suppose not,” said Bracy sadly. “I feel the same, Gedge. We did not fetch the Ghoorkhas.”
“No, sir,” said Gedge, grinning; “but we brought ’em back, and I don’t see how any two could ha’ done more than we did. But I didn’t mean that, sir. I meant about Sergeant Gee. I thought it would make him as waxy as could be; but as soon as parade was over, and the boys had done cheering me for my promotion, I got showing off, for old Gee was coming up to me, and I was getting ready to give him back as good as he give me. But what d’yer think, sir?”
“I don’t know, Gedge,” said Bracy, smiling.
“Knocks the wind outer me at once.”
“What do you mean?”