“Them there werses is rippin’!” said Joe.
“Stunnin’!” exclaimed Bob.
And so they all agreed that it was a pretty song and “well put together.”
“Capital,” said the sergeant, “I never heard anything better, and as for Mr. Wurzel, a man with his memory ought to do something better than feed pigs.”
“Ay, aye,” said the company to a man.
“Why don’t you follow my example?” said Harry; “it’s the finest life in the world for a young fellow.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, “that all depends; its very good for some, for others not so good—although there are very few who are not pleased when they once join, especially in such a regiment as ours!”
“And would you mind telling me, sir,” asked Outofwork, “what sort of chaps it don’t suit?”
“Well, you see, chaps that have been brought up in the country and tied to their mothers’ apron strings all their life: they have such soft hearts, they are almost sure to cry—and a crying soldier is a poor affair. I wouldn’t enlist a chap of that sort, no, not if he gave me ten pounds. Now, for instance, if Mr. Wurzel was to ask my advice about being a soldier I should say ‘don’t!’”
“Why not, sir?” asked Joe; “how’s that there, then? D’ye think I be afeard?”