“Adam, eh? To be sure; I remember the fellow now. Well, he’s a poor descendant of the first Adam, for if that fellow is not an arrant coward my name isn’t Bolter.”
“Really, doctor, I think you do the man an injustice. He is a very superior, well educated fellow; and it has often puzzled me how he became a private soldier.”
“Scamp!” said the doctor, shortly. “Some runaway or another. The ranks of the army are made a receptacle for blackguards!”
“Hang it, doctor!” cried the young captain, warmly, “I cannot sit here and listen to such heresy. I confess that we do get some scoundrels into the army; but as a rule our privates are a thoroughly trustworthy set of fellows, ready to go through fire and water for their officers; and I only wish the country would make better provision for them when their best days are past.”
“Ah, that’s right enough,” said the doctor; “they are all what you say, and they do deserve better treatment of their country. I mean, ha, ha, ha! to make teetotallers of them this trip. I’m not going to have the men poisoned with that red hot country arrack, I can tell them.”
“It is terrible stuff, I believe.”
“Terrible? It’s liquid poison, sir! and I don’t know that I sha’n’t try and set up a private brewery of my own, so as to supply the poor fellows with a decent glass of beer.”
“Poor fellows! eh, doctor? Why, you said just now they were a set of scoundrels.”
“Well, well, well; I didn’t mean all. But look at that fellow Sim—there’s a pretty rascal for you! He’s always on the sick-list, and it’s nearly always sham.”
“I’m afraid he is a bit of a black sheep,” said Captain Smithers.