“As you please, Sergeant; but there’s a nice piece of ham, if any would like that.”
“Ha!” said the Sergeant; “now, how many would like ham?”
“I’se for a chop,” said Joe, working his mouth as if he would get it in training.
“Right,” said the Sergeant, “we’ll see about breakfast in the morning. But you know, Mrs. Oldtimes, we like to start with a good foundation.”
And with three cheers for the Sergeant the recruits left the house: all except Joe, who occupied his old room.
After they were gone, and while Mr. Bumpkin was confidentially conversing with the landlord in the chimney corner, he was suddenly aroused by the indomitable Joe bursting into the room and performing a kind of dance or jig, the streamers, meanwhile, in his hat, flowing and flaunting in the most audaciously military manner.
“Halloa! halloa! zounds! What be th’ meaning o’ all this? Why, Joe! Joe! thee’s never done it, lad! O dear! dear!”
There were the colours as plain as possible in Joe’s
hat, and there was a wild unmeaning look in his eyes. It seemed already as if the old intimacy between him and his master were at an end. His memory was more a thing of the future than the past: he recollected the mutton chops that were to come. And I verily believe it was brightened by the dawn of new hopes and aspirations. There was an awakening sense of individuality. Hitherto he had been the property of another: he had now exercised the right of ownership over himself; and although that act had transferred him to another master, it had seemed to give him temporary freedom, and to have conferred upon him a new existence.
Man is, I suppose, what his mind is, and Joe’s mind was as completely changed as if he had been born into a different sphere. The moth comes out of the grub, the gay Hussar out of the dull ploughman.