“I had you out of the ranks, Joe Todd, for my servant; I don’t want a battering-ram.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Haxident.”
“Accident! That’s the third time you have done it within a week. Torn the curtain?”
“No, sir; don’t think so. Hurt my head.”
“I don’t believe it, Joe. A wooden door could not hurt your head! You may have cracked the panel!”
“No, sir; all right, sir.”
“Then take those clothes and brush them again. The trousers have mud-splashes as high as the knees. And take those boots, too; I can’t wear them like that.”
The man came out of the inner room with a portion of his master’s uniform under his arm and a pair of boots, swinging by the tags, one of which badly-cleaned articles he dropped in trying to open the outer door, the handle of which Dick turned for him, so that he could pass out.
As Dick closed the door he was conscious of a rustling behind him, and he turned smartly, to find himself face to face with the great lieutenant, gorgeous now in shawl-pattern smoking-trousers and purple velvet lounging-coat.
“Now for it!” he thought.