"That's no affair of mine, man. The day after to-morrow you march with me. If you skulk, you'll be shot as a deserter, that's all."
The big fellow trembled like a leaf in the wind.
"Oh! your honour," he cried, in a choking voice, "have pity on us. 'Twill kill my mother."
"Stop your snivelling!" shouted the commissioner, "or I'll have you strapped up and flogged. If you're a damned coward, pay me ten pounds for a discharge."
"Ten pounds!" cried the poor fellow; "I haven't a pound in the world, and half the wood in the yard isn't paid for."
Farmer Brewer came to the front, and said: "I will buy his discharge."
"God bless you, Mr. Brewer," said the wheelwright.
"Brewer? Have we that name on the list?" asked the commissioner of his clerk.
Then the two of them rummaged among their papers, but seemed to have no record of the farmer's existence. At length the commissioner looked up and said—
"A man who has ten pounds to spare for another must be well to pass, Mr. Brewer. Fifty pounds for the King will be no burdensome demand."