“But they would. If I were questioned, what account could I give of myself? I have tried to do the work for which I came—for which we came—and I have failed. I am not going to tell a lie.”
“No, of course not,” said Waller hotly; “but you might hold your tongue, or tell any impudent beggar who dared to ask you questions, to mind his own business, if he didn’t want to be kicked.”
“Should you speak to the soldiers like that?” said Boyne, with a smile.
“Of course,” cried Waller. “What do I care for the soldiers?”
“Ah!” sighed the lad. “But never mind that. I am so grateful to you for all you have done.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Waller, flushing. “People are always hospitable in the country.”
“So I have heard,” said the other; “but, if I had been your own brother you could not have done more for me. You have saved my life.”
“Oh, nonsense! I tell you. You make too much of it. I never had a brother, but fellows whom I have known at Winchester who have—they are not so very fond of doing things for one another. They generally like fighting and knocking one another about. I suppose they oughtn’t to, but they quarrel more with their brothers than they do with anyone else. But you mustn’t touch their brothers, for if you do—oh my! You have them on to you at once. Here, I say, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”
“Well, I will not. I don’t want to go away and leave you, but I must. I can think of nothing else.”
“But why?”