“Yes, Peterday,” said the Sergeant, hanging each cup upon its appointed nail, and setting each saucer solicitously in the space reserved for it on the small dresser, “since you have took our marching orders as you have took ’em, I am quite reconciled to parting with these here snug quarters, barring only—­a book-shelf, and a cup-board.”

“Cupboard!” returned Peterday with a snort of disdain, “why there never was such a ill-contrived, lubberly cupboard as that, in all the world; you can’t get at it unless you lay over to port,—­on account o’ the clothes-press, and then hard a starboard,—­on account o’ the dresser,—­and then it being in the darkest corner—­”

“True Peterday, but then I’m used to it, and use is everything as you know,—­I can lay my hand upon anything—­in a minute—­watch me!” Saying which, the Sergeant squeezed himself between the press and the dresser, opened the cupboard, and took thence several articles which he named, each in order.

“A pair o’ jack-boots,—­two brushes,—­blacking,—­and a burnisher.”  Having set these down, one by one, upon the dresser, he wheeled, and addressed himself to Bellew, as follows: 

“Mr. Bellew, sir,—­this evening being the anniversary of a certain—­event, sir, I will ask you—­to excuse me—­while I make the necessary preparations—­to honour this anniversary—­as is ever my custom.”  As he ended, he dropped the two brushes, the blacking, and the burnisher inside the legs of the boots, picked them up with a sweep of the arm, and, turning short round, strode out into the little garden.

“A fine fellow is Dick, sir!” nodded Peterday, beginning to fill a long clay pipe, “Lord!—­what a sailor he ‘d ha’ made, to be sure!—­failing which he’s as fine a soldier as ever was, or will be, with enough war-medals to fill my Sunday hat, sir.  When he lost his arm they gave him the V.C., and his discharge, sir,—­because why—­because a soldier wi’ one arm ain’t any more good than a sailor wi’ one leg, d’ye see.  So they tried to discharge Dick, but—­Lord love you!—­they couldn’t, sir,—­because why?—­because Dick were a soldier bred and born, and is as much a soldier to-day, as ever he was,—­ah! and always will be—­until he goes marching aloft,—­like poor Tom Bowling,—­until one as is General of all the armies, and Admiral of all the fleets as ever sailed, shall call the last muster roll, sir.  At this present moment, sir,” continued the sailor, lighting his pipe with a live coal from the fire, “my messmate is a-sitting to the leeward o’ the plum tree outside, a polishing of his jack-boots,—­as don’t need polishing, and a burnishing of his spurs,—­as don’t need burnishing.  And because why?—­because he goes on guard, to-night, according to custom.”

“On guard!” repeated Bellew, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”