“Well!” cried Jerry, fiercely, “of all! Here! I can’t stand that!”
“Hold hard!” cried the fat sergeant, catching his arm. “Where are you going?”
“To the bandmaster,” cried Jerry, “to have it out with him. My hands won’t feel like gloves!”
“Stop where you are!” growled the sergeant. “Never mind Wilkins. You don’t want to get in a row. Do you want to strike your officer?”
“Officer!” cried Jerry, excitedly; “officer! I don’t call that combination of a thing an officer!”
“You be quiet,” said Brumpton. “We’ve said enough as it is.”
“No, sir, we ain’t! and, soldier or no soldier, I’m a man, and not going to have things like that spoken about my comrade—and such a comrade as him!”
“Be quiet, I tell you!” said Brumpton; and the man’s tone and manner made Jerry forget that he was so pincushion-like in appearance. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, too!”
“And I don’t want to get in trouble,” said Jerry; “but I don’t call it manly for a lot of fellows who knew Dick Smithson to be a reg’lar gent to the backbone to stand there and hear that mean little wax-match of a man, without saying a word or sticking up for him!”
“Who said nobody stuck up for him?” said Brumpton.