“Bah! To go and strut about like a full-plumaged young cockerel in the spring, and look at yourself in a bit of glass!”
“No; I’m not so vain,” said the boy; “but I’ve got that armour and those weapons, and you have been teaching me how to use a sword and spear, and a lot more besides, and I mean to go on learning—so mind that.”
“Ho!” cried the old man. “And who’s going to teach you?”
“You are, till I’m perfect.”
“Can’t ever get perfect in using a sword and spear. It arn’t to be done, no matter how you practise.”
“Well, I mean to get as perfect as I can, and you are going on teaching me.”
“Nay,” said the old man; “once a fool don’t mean always a fool. I am going to put all these away, and you have got to forget it.”
“No!” cried the boy, angrily. “I shall never forget what you’ve taught me, Serge—never; and I’m not going to have my things put away. You shall keep them here, as you have since you fetched them home one after the other as they were made.”
“And all too big for you, so that you might fill up and grow into them,” said the old soldier, with a sigh of regret.
“And I have grown, ever so much, Serge.”