Hussars. A smarter or more compact looking fellow it would be impossible to find: and he came in with such a genial, good-natured smile, that to look at him would almost make you believe there was no happiness or glory on this side the grave except in Her Majesty’s service—especially the Hussars!
I also perceived that fluttering from the side of Sergeant Goodtale’s cap, placed carelessly and jauntily on the side of his head, was a bunch of streamers of the most fascinating red white and blue you ever could behold. Altogether, Sergeant Goodtale was a splendid sight. Down went his cane on the table with a crack, as much as to say “The Queen!” and he marched up to the fire and rubbed his hands: apparently taking no heed of any human being in the room.
Mr. Bumpkin’s heart leaped when he saw the military sight: his eyes opened as if he were waking from a dream out of which he had been disturbed by a cry of “fire:” and giving Joe a wink and an obviously made-up look, beckoned him out of the room. As they went out they met a young man, shabbily clad and apparently poorly fed. He had an intelligent face, though somewhat emaciated. He might be, and probably was, a clerk out of employment, and he threw himself on the seat in a listless manner that plainly said he was tired of everything.
This was Harry Highlow. He had been brought up with ideas beyond his means. It was through no fault of his that he had not been taught a decent trade: those responsible for his training having been possessed of the notion that manual labour lowers one’s respectability: an error and a wickedness which has been responsible for the ruin of many a promising youth before to-day.
Harry was an intelligent, fairly educated youth, and nothing more. What is to be done with raw material so plentiful as that? The cheapest marketable commodity is an average education, especially in a country where even our Universities can supply you with candidates for employment at a cheaper rate than you can obtain the services of a first-class cook. This young man had tried everything that was genteel: he had even aspired to literature: sought employment on the Press, on the Stage, everywhere in fact where gentility seemed to reign. Nor do I think he lacked ability for any of these walks; it was not ability but opportunity that failed him.
“Lookee ere, Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “harken to me. Don’t thee ’ave nowt to say to that there soger.”
“All right, maister,” said Joe, laughing; “thee thinks I be gwine for a soger. Now lookee ere, maister, I beant a fool.”
“No, thee beant, Joe. I knowed thee a good while, and thee beant no fool.”
Joe laughed. It was a big laugh was Joe’s, for his mouth was somewhat large, and a grin always seemed to twist it. On this occasion, so great was his surprise that his master should think he would be fool enough to enlist for a “soger,” that his mouth assumed the most irregular shape I ever saw, and bore a striking resemblance to a hole such as might be made in the head of a drum by the heel of a boot.
“I be up to un, maister.”