“Won’t the colonel let him off easy as—as he’s a musician?”
“How can they let him off easy? Why, if they did, half the roughs of the regiment would be off at once.”
“Ah! I didn’t think of that,” said Jerry, sadly. “But s’pose he comes back of himself?”
“He’ll be punished, but not so severely.”
“And s’pose he don’t come back?”
“Don’t suppose any confounded nonsense,” said the fat sergeant, wiping his moist forehead. “I’d have given anything—sooner than it should have happened. There’s that twopenny-fife of a man, Wilkins, squeaking about it all over the place. Hang him! I should like to punch his miserable little head, only my hands are so fat they’d feel like boxing-gloves to him. What do you think he said just now?”
“As he was glad Smithson had gone?”
“No; I’d have believed him for that. He never liked the lad, and it would only have been the honest truth. He said that it was a painful thing; but, under the circumstances, he should advise every man to examine his kit, and see that his instruments were all right.”
“What did he mean by that?” cried Jerry.
“Mean! Why, for the men to see that the poor lad hadn’t carried off anything that didn’t belong to him.”