“I tell you the war’s not ready,” he said; “and you’re as bad as rebels—I mean you’re a mutiny to come here before you’re sent for, and you ought to be shot,”—(“Executed,” whispered Mark behind him)—“executed, of course.”
“How are we to know when it’s ready?”
“You’ll be summoned,” said Bevis. “There will be a muster-roll and a trumpet blown, and you’ll have to march a thousand miles.”
“All right.”
“And the swords have to be made, and the eagles, besides the map of the roads and the grub,”—(“Provisions,” said Mark)—“provisions, of course, and all the rest, and how do you think a war is to be got ready in a minute, you stupes!” in a tone of great indignation.
They grumbled: they wanted a big battle on the spot.
“If you bother me much,” said Bevis, “while I’m getting the fleet ready, there shan’t be a war at all.”
“Are you getting a fleet?”
“Here are the sails,” said Mark, holding up some canvas.
“Well, you won’t be long?”