“Sets one longing, sir, don’t it?” said Ben.
“Ay, it does,” said Roy, sighing.
“’Tick’larly at your age, sir. Why, I almost wish my wound hadn’t got well. It did give me something to think about. If I go on with nothing to do much longer, they’ll have to dig a hole to bury me.”
“Nonsense, Ben!”
“No, it aren’t nonsense, sir; for you see I always was a busy man. Now there’s no armour to polish, no guns to look after, no powder-magazine to work at, and no one to drill. I’m just getting rusty, right through to the heart.”
“But you’ve been weak and ill, Ben, and a rest does you good.”
“No, it don’t, sir. Does t’others good; and thanks to my lady and the doctor, every one’s got well ’cept Sam Donny, whose leg is reg’lar twissen up like, and as if it would never come straight again. Seems queer, too, as a wound uppards should affect him so downards.”
“Oh, he’ll be right when the war’s over.”
“When it’s over, sir? But when will that be?”
“Ah! I don’t know, Ben,” said Roy, with a sigh. “But there, don’t fret. Take it easy for a bit, and grow strong.”