"True, mam, and speaking o' men brings us back to the Major and him a-whistling as merry as any grig."
"Grigs don't whistle, Sergeant."
"No more they do, mam, no—lark's the word. Also he's set on buying a noo wig, mam, and him with four brand-noo—almost, except his service wig which I'll grant you is a bit wore and moth-eaten like arter three campaigns which therefore aren't to be nowise wondered at. But what is to be wondered at is his honour troubling about suchlike when 'tis me as generally reports to him when garments is outwore and me as has done the ordering of same, these ten year and more. And now here's him wanting to buy a noo wig all at once! Mam, what I say is—damme!"
"Sergeant, ha' done!"
"Ax your pardon, mam, but 'tis so strange and onexpected. A noo wig! Wants one more modish! Aye," said the Sergeant, shaking his head, "'modish' were the word, mam—'modish'! Now what I says to that is——"
"Sergeant, hush!"
"Why I ain't said it yet, mam——"
"Then don't!"
"Very well, mam!" he sighed. "But 'modish'——"
"And why shouldn't he be modish?" demanded Mrs. Agatha warmly, "he's young enough and handsome enough."