Peddle, gray, bent, uncomprehending, regarded him blankly.
“All what, sir?”
“I only want to wash my hands,” said Doggie.
“But aren’t you going to dress for dinner, sir?”
“A private soldier’s not allowed to wear [v]mufti,” returned Doggie.
“Who’s to find out?”
“There’s Mr. Oliver; he’s a major.”
“Ah, Mr. Marmaduke, he wouldn’t mind. Miss Peggy gave me my orders, sir, and I think you can leave things to her.”
“All right, Peddle,” laughed Doggie. “If it’s Miss Peggy’s decree, I’ll change my clothes. I have all I want.”
“Are you sure you can manage, sir?” Peddle asked anxiously, for the time was when Doggie could not stick his legs into his trousers unless Peddle helped him.