“I’m ’ighly grateful, Muster Corkran. I’ve ’ad to run against you pretty hard in the way o’ business, now and then, but I will say that outside o’ business—bounds an’ smokin’, an’ such like—I don’t wish to have a more trustworthy young gentleman to ’elp me out of a hole. The way you ’andled the drill was beautiful, though I say it. Now, if you come regular henceforward—”
“But he’ll have to be late three times a week,” said Beetle. “You can’t expect a chap to do that—just to please you, Foxy.”
“Ah, that’s true. Still, if you could manage it—and you, Muster Beetle—it would give you a big start when the cadet-corps is formed. I expect the General will recommend it.”
They raided Keyte’s very much at their own sweet will, for the old man, who knew them well, was deep in talk with Foxy. “I make what we’ve taken seven and six,” Stalky called at last over the counter; “but you’d better count for yourself.”
“No—no. I’d take your word any day, Muster Corkran.—In the Pompadours, was he, Sergeant? We lay with them once at Umballa, I think it was.”
“I don’t know whether this ham-and-tongue tin is eighteen pence or one an’ four.”
“Say one an’ fourpence, Muster Corkran... Of course, Sergeant, if it was any use to give my time, I’d be pleased to do it, but I’m too old. I’d like to see a drill again.”
“Oh, come on, Stalky,” cried McTurk. “He isn’t listenin’ to you. Chuck over the money.”
“I want the quid changed, you ass. Keyte! Private Keyte! Corporal Keyte! Terroop-Sergeant-Major Keyte, will you give me change for a quid?”
“Yes—yes, of course. Seven an’ six.” He stared abstractedly, pushed the silver over, and melted away into the darkness of the back room.