And the Canteen gradually emptied as the men departed noisily to their respective barrack-rooms.
CHAPTER II
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew:
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The day’s disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, and many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d.
—Goldsmith
Captain Richard Bargrave, Superintendent of L Division—better known by the fond appellation of “Father”—sauntered slowly along the narrow sidewalk leading from his quarters to the orderly-room; the aged black-and-white setter “Bob,” his constant companion, keeping step behind.
How well many of us can recall that tall, spare, soldierly figure, and the walk with its faint suggestion of old-fashioned cavalry swagger, while the whispers of “Look out! here’s Father coming now!” sent us all scuttling about our duties. How we used to fume and curse (behind his back) at his numerous erratic bursts of temper and little eccentricities. How his polished sarcasm and fluent adjectives used to curl us up and, incidentally—excite our envy. And yet—how we learned to trust and respect that irascible but kindly old aristocratic face, with its sweeping fair mustache. Aye!—
He passed as a Man in our critical eyes,
Stern, yet kindly—simple, yet wise.
Who’d upheld his rank since his service began
As “An Officer, and ... a Gentleman.”
“Father’s a rum old beggar but, begad, he’s a gentleman and always gives you a square deal,” was our invariable retort to divers disparaging criticisms from members of other divisions, less fortunate, perhaps, in the stamp of their own particular “Officer Commanding.”
Benton, who, attired in a red serge tunic—borrowed from Dudley for the occasion—was looking through the billiard-room window, watched his approach with interest. When nearing the orderly-room the old dog, seeing “the Monk’s” pup in supreme possession of the step, jumped forward with a threatening growl to eject the usurper of his own customary lounge. In the scuffle that ensued they got between “Father’s” legs and nearly upset him.
“Damn the dogs! Damn the dogs!” he chuckled softly.
And, stepping over them carefully, with a fond, benevolent smile, he passed on through the open door, half humming, half whistling a hymn tune, which was not, however, prompted by especial piety. It was a habit of his. But to the observant sergeant it was an omen.