"Why don't you take off that shako? It's pretty heavy, ain't it?"
"Now, my little wench, that's quite enough! Right about turn, quick march! They are calling you in the kitchen."
The nursery-maid scuttled off. The veteran was getting quite angry at all these simple questions.
In no very long time, however, the neat little wench came sidling back again. First she poked her head through the kitchen door as if she wanted to find out whether the big soldier there would bite off her nose—which was a little snub, and small enough already.
"Mr. Orderly, the cook has sent you three hearth cakes."
"Good."
"Take them then." This she said, still keeping at a safe distance, and thrusting forward the nice lard-made hearth cakes as if she were offering them to some snappy, snarling watch-dog at the end of a long chain.
"I can't," answered the gallant defender of his country sturdily.
"Ain't you got hands, then?"
"No, not for them. But if you like you can tuck them into my cartridge-box behind there."