The old soldier shook his head sadly.
“You don’t mean that, Master Roy,” he said; “and it’s only because you’re tingling a bit; that’s all.”
The man’s words disarmed Roy, and the angry frown passed away, as he said, frankly—
“No, I don’t mean it now, Ben. The places don’t tingle so; but I say, there’ll be black marks wherever you cut at me.”
“Never mind, sir; they’ll soon come white again, and you’ll know next time that you’ve got to have your weapon ready to save yourself. Well, I dunno. I meant it right, but you’ve had enough of it. Some day Sir Granby’ll let you go to a big fencing-master as never faced a bit o’ steel drawn in anger in his life, and he’ll put you on leather pads and things, and tap you soft like, and show you how to bow, s’loot, and cut capers like a Frenchman, and when he’s done with you I could cut you up into mincemeat without you being able to give me a scratch.”
“Get out!” cried Roy. “You don’t think anything of the sort. What time shall I come to-morrow morning—six?”
“No, sir, no. Bed’s very nice at six o’clock in the morning. You stop there, and then you won’t be hurt.”
“Five, then?” said Roy, sharply.
“Nay, sir; you wait for the big fencing-master.”
“Five o’clock, I said,” cried Roy.