“Of course I do, boy,” said the man, chuckling. “If it’s heavy, don’t the weight go right down to the bottom and drive your toes hard to the very end of your sandals?”
“I didn’t think of that, Serge,” said the boy, a trifle less irritably.
“S’pose not, boy. You haven’t got to the end of everything that there is to know. Besides, your helmet is light.”
“Light?” cried Marcus, bitterly.
“Well, of course it aren’t as light as a straw hat as you can tilt off every time you come into the shade, and let it hang between your shoulders, same as you do your shield.”
“And I suppose that is?” said Marcus, sharply.
“What, as a straw hat, boy? Well, I don’t say that,” said Serge, drily, “because it do weigh a tidy bit. But that helmet of yours, as I took care should be just right for a boy, is too light altogether.”
“Bah!” cried Marcus. “Why, it has made my forehead and the back just behind my ears as sore as sore.”
“Pooh! That isn’t because the helmet’s too heavy; it’s on account of your head being so soft and green. It’ll be hard enough before the end of this war. Why, if it were lighter, every crack you got in your first fight would make it give way like an eggshell; and then where would you be, my lad? Come, come, cheer up! You’re a bit tired with this tramp—the first big one you’ve had. You’ll be better in the morning, and before this time to-morrow night I dare say we shall be in sight of Rome and its hills and the Tiber, and, take my word for it, you won’t feel tired then.”
“Think not. Serge?”