Under his old-fashioned scarlet uniform, which was cut somewhat in the mode of Queen Anne's days, he wore a buff coat, and this was, no doubt, the last appearance of such a garment in any European army.
He received me gravely but kindly, and said,
"So, boy, you have resolved to become a soldier?"
"Yes, noble sir," said I; for as Charters had informed me, this was then the mode of addressing the commanding officer of a regiment.
"You are very young, and seem somewhat different from the common run of our recruits. Your name is rather uncommon, too. I presume that your parents——"
"They are in their graves. I have none to advise or regret me—none whom I can regret."
(Did no thought of Poor Ruth arrest this sweeping speech?)
"Good! you are then the best of food for gunpowder. Your age——"
"I am about eighteen, sir."
"You look older than that—in face, especially."