“There is, indeed,” said Jim, guiltily. “Just you have as much as you feel like.”
“Are you a soldier?” demanded Timsy, his eyes on Jim’s uniform.
The boy nodded.
“Like me daddy?”
“Not as good, I expect,” said Jim.
“Me daddy’s the finest soldier ever went out of Ireland—old Nanny told me he was. And she said if once he met that old Kaiser he’d be sorry he ever got borned. An’ he would, too, if me daddy cot him. An he’s a sergeant, ’cause he’s got free stripes on his arm. Why hasn’t you got any?”
“I don’t know as much as your daddy,” said Jim, probably with perfect truth. “When I get bigger they may give me some.”
“You’re bigger than me daddy, now,” said Timsy, surveying him. “Only you haven’t got any whiskers. I ’spect you have to have whiskers before you get free stripes.”
“I expect so,” Jim agreed. “I’ll grow some the first minute I get time. What have you done with your legs, Timsy?”
“Scratched ’em, I ’spect,” said Timsy, indifferently, casting a fleeting glance at his bare brown legs, which bore many marks of warfare. “They’s bwambles in the wood. Why is your buttons dif-runt to me daddy’s?”