‘More natural with a spud!—have a care, miller,’ said the young giant, the fire of his complexion increasing to scarlet. ‘I don’t mean anger, but—but—a soldier’s honour, you know!’
The military in the background laughed a little, and the yeoman then for the first time discovered that there were more regulars present than one. He looked momentarily disconcerted, but expanded again to full assurance.
‘Right, right, Master Derriman, no offence—’twas only my joke,’ said the genial miller. ‘Everybody’s a soldier nowadays. Drink a drap o’ this cordial, and don’t mind words.’
The young man drank without the least reluctance, and said, ‘Yes, miller, I am called out. ’Tis ticklish times for us soldiers now; we hold our lives in our hands—What are those fellows grinning at behind the table?—I say, we do!’
‘Staying with your uncle at the farm for a day or two, Mr. Derriman?’
‘No, no; as I told you, six mile off. Billeted at Casterbridge. But I have to call and see the old, old—’
‘Gentleman?’
‘Gentleman!—no, skinflint. He lives upon the sweepings of the barton; ha, ha!’ And the speaker’s regular white teeth showed themselves like snow in a Dutch cabbage. ‘Well, well, the profession of arms makes a man proof against all that. I take things as I find ’em.’
‘Quite right, Master Derriman. Another drop?’
‘No, no. I’ll take no more than is good for me—no man should; so don’t tempt me.’