“To be sure, Hector,” answered Sir John, ringing the small silver bell at his elbow. “He is my major-domo, my valet, my general factotum, and will never be anything but a grenadier to the day of his death. Here he is!” At this moment was a short, sharp double knock and the door opened to admit a very square-shouldered, sharp-eyed man extremely precise as to clothes, speech and gesture, who, beholding Sir Hector’s stalwart figure, halted suddenly, whipped up right hand as if to touch neat wig but, thinking better of it, bowed instead and immediately stood at attention.
“Stiff and straight as though on parade, Hector!” murmured Sir John, whereupon the Corporal flushed and immediately “stood easy.”
“Ha, Corporal Robert!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Dae ye mind the day we stormed the barricades afore Maestricht, and me wi’ yon Frenchman’s baggonet through me arrm? If ye hadna been there, I shouldna be here—so, Corporal Bobbie, gi’e’s a grup o’ y’r hand.” The Corporal’s cheek flushed again and his eyes glowed as their fingers gripped, but when he spoke it was to his master.
“You rang, Sir John?”
“I did, Robert. I desire you to inform us if I was particularly drunk or no last night?”
“By no manner o’ means, Sir John.”
“You are ready to swear that?”
“Bible oath, Sir John!”
“I am not often drunk, I believe, Bob?”
“Never more than the occasion demands, sir—and then very genteelly!”