“Of course it does. It makes me hot too; but then, you see, I’m weak. But do go on. What happened then?”
“He knocked me down,” said the lad hoarsely.
“Oh!” cried the boy, trying to spring up from his rough couch, but sinking back with the great beads of perspiration standing upon his brown forehead. “Don’t you tell me you stood that!”
“No, Punch; I couldn’t. That night I went right away from home, just as I stood, made my way to London, and the next day I went to King Street, Westminster, and saw where the recruiting sergeants were marching up and down.”
“I know,” cried the boy, “with their canes under their arms and their colours flying.”
“Yes, Punch, and I picked out the one in the new regiment, the —th Rifles.”
“Yes,” cried Punch, “the Rifle green with the red collars and cuffs.”
Pen, half-excited by his recollections, half-amused at the boy’s intense interest, nodded again.
“And took the king’s shilling,” cried Punch; “and I know, but I want you to tell me—you joined ours just to show that uncle that you wanted to serve the king, and not for the sake of the scarlet coat.”
“Yes, Punch, that was why; and that’s all.”