“Lucy,” said he, “while my steak is getting ready, I
think I’ll have three of whiskey hot, with a little lemon in it.”
At this there was an involuntary smacking of lips all round, although no one was conscious he had exhibited any emotion. The Sergeant was perfectly easy and indifferent to everything. He smoked, looked at the fire, sipped his grog, spread out his legs, folded his arms; then rose and turned his back to the fire, everyone thinking how thoroughly he enjoyed himself.
“That smells very nice, Sergeant,” said Harry.
“Yes, it’s very good,” said the Sergeant; “it’s some I got down at Yokelton, Somersetshire.”
Here Joe looked up; he hadn’t been home for a week, and began to feel some interest in the old place, and everything belonging to it.
“I comes from that ere place, Mr. Sergeant,” said he.
“Indeed, sir,” said the Sergeant, in an off-hand manner.
“Did thee buy un at a shop by the Pond, sir?”
“That’s it,” replied the Sergeant, pointing with his pipe, “to the right.”