“No, sir,” I said warmly. “My father is a splendid horseman, and I’ve hunted a great deal. Why, he used to put me on a pony when I was only six, and whenever I was at home he made me hunt with him, and go straight across country.”
“Humph! Wonder he did not break your neck!”
“Oh no, sir,” I replied; “but I have broken my arm, and had some falls.”
“Ah, well; be content with your commission in the foot. Some day, perhaps, you may get into the horse, especially if you ride well, and have some interest to back you up. Well, I congratulate you, Vincent, my lad, and I am well satisfied with your progress.”
“Satisfied, sir?” I said, as I recalled the scolding of an hour earlier.
“Oh yes, on the whole, my boy. You’ve got the makings of a good soldier in you. Little too fond of fighting. Ought to be in your favour, eh? But it isn’t. A good officer never fights if he can help it; but when he does, why, of course, he fights skilfully, and lets the enemy know that he is in earnest. But seriously, Vincent, you have one great failing.”
“More than one, sir, I’m afraid,” I said dolefully.
“Never mind the others; perhaps they’ll cure themselves. But you must keep a strict watch over that temper of yours, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” I said penitently; “I have a horrible temper.”
“A temper, Vincent, not a horrible temper. And I don’t know that you need regret it so long as you learn to subdue it. Tight-curb, that’s all. Make a better soldier of you. It means spirit and decision, properly schooled. Oh, you’ll do, boy. I should like to turn out another hundred of you.”