“Pretty work she’ll make in the regiment sixteen or seventeen years hence,” grumbled old Garnet.
“Ah, well, nevah mind, Garnet—nevah you mind, Major Garnet, sir,” cried Hartog, “we shall all be dead by then;” but this being an exceedingly old and threadbare regimental joke was instantly snubbed in the face of the new and substantial one.
“Has it any teeth?” demanded Miles, the orderly officer for the day.
“Don’t know. Open your mouth, little one,” said Lacy, gravely.
At this point Miss Mignon made a delighted lunge in the direction of the belt across Miles’s breast. Lacy shouted, “Whoa, whoa,” and Miles immediately backed out of reach. Miss Mignon’s mouth went dismally down, until Lacy remembered the knob of his whip, and held it up for delectation.
“Boo—boo!” she crowed.
“By Jove! She can half say Bootles already,” ejaculated Hartog. “And here he comes.”
“Now, then,” Bootles called out, “have any of you fellows made up your mind to own this little baggage?”
“No; none of us,” they laughed; but one man, Gilchrist by name, said, with a sneer, he should rather think not, and added two unnecessary words—“workhouse brat!”
Bootles turned, and looked down upon him in profoundest contempt.