“I say,” continued the sergeant; “let us suppose we got a republic to-morrow; well, we should want a head, or as they say, a president.”
“That’s good,” said half-a-dozen voices.
“Well, what then?” said the sergeant; “Who would you choose? Why, the Queen, to be sure.”
Everybody said “The Queen!” And there was such a thumping on the table that all further discourse was prevented for several minutes. At last everyone said it was good, and the sergeant had put it straight.
“Well, look’ee ’ere, lads—I was born among the poor and I don’t owe nothing to the upper classes, not even a grudge!”
“Hear! hear! Bravo, Mr. Sergeant!” cried all.
“Well, then; I’ve got on so far as well as I can, and I’m satisfied; but I’ll tell you what I believe our Queen to be—a thorough woman, and loves her people, especially the poor, so much that d---d if I wouldn’t die for her any day—now what d’ye think o’ that?”
Everybody thought he was a capital fellow.
“Look, here,” he continued, “it isn’t because she wears a gold crown, or anything of that sort, nor because a word of her’s could make me a field marshal, or a duke, or anything o’ that sort, nor because she’s rich, but I’ll tell you why it is—and it’s this—when we’re fighting we don’t fight for her except as the Queen, and the Queen means the country.”
“Hear! hear! hear! hear!”