“Of course not,” said Bobby, and he shook accordingly. Dormer returned to barracks and Bobby to mess.
“He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I think,” said Bobby. “My aunt, but he's a filthy sort of animal! Have you ever seen him clean 'them, muchly-fish with 'is thumbs'?”
“Anyhow,” said Revere, three weeks later, “he's doing his best to keep his things clean.”
When the spring died, Bobby joined in the general scramble for Hill leave, and to his surprise and delight secured three months.
“As good a boy as I want,” said Revere, the admiring skipper.
“The best of the batch,” said the Adjutant to the Colonel. “Keep back that young skrim-shanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere make him sit up.”
So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with a tin box of gorgeous raiment.
“Son of Wick—old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask him to dinner, dear,” said the aged men.
“What a nice boy!” said the matrons and the maids.
“First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri-ipping!” said Bobby Wick, and ordered new white cord breeches on the strength of it.