“On’y wanted to smell what was for dinner,” he said. “What have you got, Mother Beane?”
“Never you mind. Rare ohs for meddlers, and pump-handle sauce, perhaps; and look here, you sir, you come when we halt to-night and I’ll mend some of them rags. You’re a disgrace.”
“Ain’t worse than the rest of the fellows,” said Tom, grinning. “The Colonel’s horse went down ’s morn’.”
“Oh, dear, dear!” cried the woman excitedly; “is he hurt?”
“Broke both his knees, and bled ever so.”
“The Colonel?”
“Now-w-w! His horse. Colonel only went sliding down ’mong the stones, and ripped his jacket sleeve right up.”
“Oh, that’s a blessing,” said the woman. “You go to him when we camp, and say Mrs Corp’ral Beane’s dooty and she’s got a needle and silk ready, and may she mend his jacket.”
“All right, but you might tell us what’s for dinner.”
“Wait and see. And why don’t you go and forage about and see if you can’t find a bit o’ fruit or some vegetables?”