“Ought to be tied up,” he muttered; “but ’tain’t like a cut finger: you can’t turn him about. We’ll wait till doctor comes.”
“Won’t yer wash it?” said Smiler, with a grin.
“Nay, doctor ’ll do that if it’s right; we’ll try and give him a drink when the water comes, and bathe his face. What did he go and do that for?”
“Think he did?” said Smiler.
“Why, o’ course,” said another. “Hadn’t he got the pistol lying in his fist?”
“Ay,” said Joey. “I s’pose some on ’em ain’t very comf’able with them drill-sergeants—shoots theirselves in barracks sometimes. Yer see, when a man ’lists, he can’t pitch it up again and say ‘I’ve had enough of this.’”
“No, they’re ’bliged to stick to it,” said Smiler, “’less someun buys ’em out. I dunno, though, but what I’d ha’ liked to be a sojer; it’s better than spendin’ all yer life in a hop-garden, spuddin’ and poling and hoeing.”
“You!” said Joey, “you a sojer, Smiler?”
“Well, why not? Course, I know my back’s a bit twisted, but it would ha’ been right enough if I’d been drilled.”
“They’d ha’ had to drill something else beside your legs and wings, Smiler,” said Joey, giving his companions a queer look.