“But they’re not going back, Ben. Father’s orders are that they’re to stay.”
“Three trained soldiers, sir, to start with!” cried Ben. “Me four, and you five. Why, that’s just like five seeds out of which we can grow a little army.”
“Then there are the men-servants.”
“Well, sir, they’re more used to washing cups and cleaning knives, and plate, and horses; but we shall have to lick ’em into shape. Let’s see, there’s the three men indoors, the groom, and coachman, that makes five more.”
“And the two gardeners.”
“Of course, sir! Why, they’ll make the best of ’em all. Twelve of us.”
“And Master Pawson, thirteen.”
“P’ff! him!” cried Ben, with a look of contempt. “What’s he going to do? Read to the sentries, sir, to keep ’em from going to sleep?”
“Oh, he’ll be of some use, Ben. We mustn’t despise any one.”
“Right, sir; we mustn’t: so as soon as he comes back—he’s gone over to Parson Meldew’s—”