“Oh no, boy; course you can’t till you’ve done growing, and then you won’t grow any more.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” snapped out the boy.
“No. Oh no; but what’s the matter with your shoulder?”
“Nothing much,” said Marcus, sourly. “Those shoulder straps rub that one, and the back part frets my neck.”
“Does it? That’s bad; but I’ll put that right when you put it on in the morning. Don’t you mind about that: after a bit your skin’ll get hard, and what feels to worry and rub you will be soft as a duck’s breast.”
“Nonsense! How can bronze and brass get to be soft as feathers, Serge?”
“Oh, I dunno, my lad,” replied the old soldier, slowly, “but it do. I suppose,” he added, mockingly, “you get so much glory on your shoulders that it pads you out and makes your armour fit like wax. It is heavy, though, at first. Mine worried me the first day, because I hadn’t worn it for years; but it sits lovely now, and I could run and jump and do anything. Helmet too did feel a bit lumpy; but I felt it more in my toes than on my head.”
“Are you laughing at me, Serge?” cried Marcus, turning upon the man, sharply.
“Can’t you see I’m not, boy? Why, I’m as serious as a centurion with a new command.”
“But do you think I’m going to believe that you felt your heavy helmet in your toes?”