“What!”
“Because you knows, sir, as I feels more respect for you than I do for the whole regiment put together. I talks a bit, and I never come anigh you, sir, without feeling slack.”
“Feeling slack?”
“Yes, sir. Unbuttoned-like, and as if I was smiling all over.”
“What! at your officer?”
“No, sir; not at you, sir. I can’t tell you why; only I don’t feel soldier-like—drilled up and stiff as if I had been starched by one of my comrades’ wives.”
“Well, you are a rum fellow, Pete.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man sadly. “That’s what our chaps say; and Patient Job says I am a disgrace to the regiment, that I know nothing, and that I shall never make a soldier. But I don’t care. Still, I do know one thing: I like you, sir; and if it hadn’t been for seeing you always getting into trouble—”
“Peter Pegg!”
“Yes, sir. But I can’t stop saying it, sir. If it hadn’t been for you, and seeing you always getting into trouble too—”