“Oh, very well,” cried Marcus. “I don’t feel that I can say any more to you.”
“Then I won’t to you, my lad, and there’s my hand on it. Only mind this,” cried Serge, as they stood with their hands clasped, “this is only me, you know. I lose my place of looking after you, according to the master’s orders, by forsaking my post and going after him, so I aren’t no longer holding your rein, as you may say. What I mean is this—I forgive you, but I am not going to answer for what your father will say.”
“Oh, of course not,” cried Marcus. “We have both got to face that.”
“Yes, my lad,” said the old soldier, sourly, “and a nice hard time it’s going to be. I daren’t think about it, but keep on putting it off till it comes. That’ll be time enough. So now then, you and me’s going to be friends, and try to help one another out of the mud. That is, unless you think we’d better go back home together.”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Marcus. “Impossible! We must go on now.”
“Yes,” said Serge, bluntly. “Then it’s vittles.”
“Vittles?” said Marcus, staring.
“Yes. Don’t you know what vittles are? Didn’t you say you was hungry?”
“Oh!” cried Marcus.
“Have you got anything?”