“Here, sergeant,” shouted the colonel; and Brumpton doubled up to him, halted, and stood fast, conscious that officers and men were on the grin. “Look here, Brumpton, this really will not do. Confound you, sir! you’re making the regiment a laughing-stock.”
“Very sorry, sir—try to do my duty.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the colonel. “You are a capital sergeant; but look at you this morning!”
Brumpton rolled his eyes about, but stood still.
“I would not do that, man; you can’t see behind you. Are you aware that the back seams of your jacket are opening out?”
“No, sir, but they will do it.”
“Then why the dickens don’t you train and get rid of some of that superfluous fat? There, you can’t stop on parade. Go and get your jacket mended.”
Poor Brumpton’s face changed as he turned to go, but before he had gone far the colonel cried:
“Stop! There, go on with your duty, sir.—Poor fellow,” he muttered, “I can’t be hard upon him. But he is so disgustingly fat; eh, Lacey?”
“Yes, he is fat,” said the lieutenant, thoughtfully. “Poor beggar! it would be rough upon him on service if we had to run. I mean retreat, sir!”