“You are a lucky one,” continued Morton. “I say, you do know some one in the India House, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “Uncle Joe’s on the board.”
“That’s it, then. You’ve got your commission, as safe as wheat, as our old coachman used to say. I salute you, sir. You’ll be a Lord Clive one of these days, before I get my captaincy.”
“Oh, nonsense!” I cried, and then all seemed to be one buzz of confusion, till I reached General Crude’s study, and found him walking up and down the room. He had left his table with his gold snuff-box in one hand, his pinched-together finger and thumb of the other holding a tiny modicum of snuff, which he applied to his nose as I entered, and he stopped short before me.
“Oh, there you are, Vincent,” he said in his prompt military way, and I noticed that the trouble of a short time before was all put aside. “You know what I want, I suppose?”
“I can’t help guessing, sir.”
“No, I suppose not. You must have plenty of interest, my dear lad, and I congratulate you. Here you are appointed to the artillery. Calcutta.”
“Ah!” I ejaculated; and in those busy moments as I stood looking right ahead out of the study into my future, I felt as if young, slight, and youthful as I was, boyhood was dropping away, and I was going to be a man to command men.
“It’s too early, Vincent,” he said, shaking his head, and tapping his snuff-box; “much too early. You are such a boy. Why, you’ll be the youngest officer in the service, though you do look old. I should have liked you to stay with us a couple of years longer.”
“Yes, sir,” I faltered. “I’m afraid I’ve got on very badly.”