“I am strong, sir. Strong as a horse—but do I look like the sort of man to take it easy? I’ve sat on that bench in the sun warming one side, and turning and warming the other side, till I’ve felt as if I hated myself. It aren’t as if I could read. Begin to wish I could now, not as I ever knowed much good come out o’ books.”
“Why, Ben!”
“Ah, you may say ‘Why, Ben!’ sir, but look what books’ll bring a man to! Look at that there Fiddler Pawson. Shuts hisself up even now, doing nothing but read, and only comes out o’ nights, and goes prowling round the ramparts like an old black tom-cat. You can often hear the sentries challenging him.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Roy. “I’ve heard them challenge some one when I’ve been watching the stars.”
“What business have you watching the stars o’ nights, sir?” said Ben, sourly.
“Can’t always sleep, Ben, for thinking.”
“Humph!” growled the man. “Howsoever, sir, I do live in hopes.”
“Yes; so do I.”
“Ah, not same as me, sir. I lives in hopes o’ one o’ the sentries making a mistake some night.”
“And shooting him, Ben?”