“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 mufti, Peddle. They’d dock me of a week’s pay if they found out.”
“Who’s to find out, sir?”
“There’s Mr. Oliver—he’s a Major.”
“Lord, Mr. Marmaduke, I don’t think he’d mind. Miss Peggy gave me my orders, sir, and I think you can leave things to her.”
“All right, Peddle,” he laughed. “If it’s Miss Peggy’s decree, I’ll change. I’ve got all I want.”
“Are you sure you can manage, sir?” Peddle asked anxiously, for time was when Doggie couldn’t stick his legs into his trousers unless Peddle held them out for him.
“Quite,” said Doggie.
“It seems rather roughing it here, Mr. Marmaduke, after what you’ve been accustomed to at the Hall.”