“That ain't no good neither. We ain't the sort o' characters to presoom on our rep'tations—they're bad. If they have the Band at the Depot we don't go, and no error there. If they take the Band we may get cast for medical unfitness. Are you medical fit, Piggy?” said Jakin, digging Lew in the ribs with force.
“Yus,” said Lew with an oath. “The Doctor says your 'eart's weak through smokin' on an empty stummick. Throw a chest an' I'll try yer.”
Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote with all his might. Jakin turned very pale, gasped, crowed, screwed up his eyes, and said—“That's all right.”
“You'll do,” said Lew. “I've 'eard o' men dying when you 'it 'em fair on the breastbone.”
“Don't bring us no nearer goin', though,” said Jakin. “Do you know where we're ordered?”
“Gawd knows, an' 'E won't split on a pal. Somewheres up to the Front to kill Paythans—hairy big beggars that turn you inside out if they get 'old o' you. They say their women are good-looking, too.”
“Any loot?” asked the abandoned Jakin.
“Not a bloomin' anna, they say, unless you dig up the ground an' see what the niggers 'ave 'id. They're a poor lot.” Jakin stood upright on the branch and gazed across the plain.
“Lew,” said he, “there's the Colonel coming. 'Colonel's a good old beggar. Let's go an' talk to 'im.”
Lew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity of the suggestion. Like Jakin he feared not God, neither regarded he Man, but there are limits even to the audacity of a drummer-boy, and to speak to a Colonel was—