"You will hear of the 5th Fusiliers favourably, I am sure," said he lightly, trying to calm her agitation.
"Henry is so rash and ardent," she returned.
"And I am a cool, quiet fellow, ma'am. Oh, you may trust me—I'll have an eye to him."
"Will there be wars, Doctor dear, where you ones is goin'?" asked old Jack Dunn, wistfully, as he polished the young gentlemen's boots for the last time before their departure. The friends were smoking a last pipe by the kitchen fire of the cottage where Mrs. Archer lived in her husband's old parish, among the people who had loved him. Jack was polishing the boots close to them, pausing every now and then to exchange a word with his "wichel," whom he had nursed as an infant, petted and scolded as a schoolboy, and shielded from punishment on innumerable occasions. His "wichel" was now a huge young man, taller than Dr. McGregor by four inches.
"Wha'll black them boots now?" said Jack in a sentimental tone. "Wha'll put the richt polish on them? Some scatter-brained youngster, I'm thinkin', that shouldna be trusted to handle boots like these anes." Thus he spoke, making the hissing, purring noise with which he accompanied his rubbing down of King William.
The friends smiled at each other. "That's hard work, Jack," remarked Henry.
"But are ye goin' to the wars, my wean? Doctor dear, tell me, will he be fightin' them savage Indians?"
"We believe so, Jack. We are to join the 5th Fusiliers, and they are to fight the warlike Hill Tribes, fine soldiers—tall, fine men they are, we are told."
"Alase-a-nie! You'll nae be fightin' yoursel, Doctor?"
"No," smiled McGregor, "my duty will be to cure, not to kill."