Boy answered with truth, “I don’t know.”
“I’m going to be a soldier,” said Alister. “It’s a fine thing to be a soldier. Though father says a soldier can’t get a drink if he wants to, unless he takes off his uniform first. Isn’t that battish? But whenever we have another war we’re going to keep our uniforms on and drink in them whenever we want to.”
“And will you go and fight?” asked Boy wistfully.
“Rather! Let me hear any one abusing England, and I’ll run them straight through with my sword in no time!”
“Will you—really?” And Boy looked respectfully at Alister’s round face, already seeing the martial hero in the saucy physiognomy of his friend,—the sparkling eyes, the defiant little nose, and the chubby dimpled chin.
“When you’re a soldier, you’re a defender of the country,” went on Alister, “and the Queen says, ‘Thank you very much, I hope you’ll do your duty!’ And you get medals and things, and the Victoria Cross. That’s what’s called a V.C. I know a man who’s got that, and he’s just as proud as Punch. He’s one of father’s friends. But he’s awfully poor—awfully. And he’s got rheumatism through having slept out several nights on a field of battle—and he’s all cramped and funny, with twisted legs and crooked fingers, but he’s just as proud as Punch of his V.C.”
Boy tried to grasp the picture of a gentleman who was “all cramped and funny, with twisted legs and crooked fingers,” who was “just as proud as Punch.” But he could not do it. And Alister putting up his oars said, “Let’s have some music!” and forthwith drew out a concertina from the bottom of the boat and discoursed thereon a wailful ear-piercing melody. Boy had heard him play this distressing instrument before, but never quite so dolefully. The melancholy snoring sounds emanating from between Alister’s fat fingers seemed to cast a gloom over the landscape—to make the mountains around them look darker and more eerie—to give a melodramatic effect to the sinking sun, and to suggest the possibility of bogies and kelpies trooping down on the Silver Strand to perform a fantastic dance thereon. Alister thought his own playing quite beautiful; Boy considered it lovely too, but dreadful. When he could bear it no more he ventured to disturb the performance.
“I say, Alister!”
Alister’s eyes had closed in a dumb ecstacy over a particularly prolonged and dismal chord, but he opened them quickly and stopped playing.
“What?”