'What noisy fellow is that in the next room?' said Joe, when he had
disposed of his breakfast, and had washed and brushed himself.
'A recruiting serjeant,' replied the Lion.
Joe started involuntarily. Here was the very thing he had been dreaming
of, all the way along.
'And I wish,' said the Lion, 'he was anywhere else but here. The party
make noise enough, but don't call for much. There's great cry there, Mr
Willet, but very little wool. Your father wouldn't like 'em, I know.'
Perhaps not much under any circumstances. Perhaps if he could have known
what was passing at that moment in Joe's mind, he would have liked them
still less.
'Is he recruiting for a--for a fine regiment?' said Joe, glancing at a
little round mirror that hung in the bar.
'I believe he is,' replied the host. 'It's much the same thing, whatever
regiment he's recruiting for. I'm told there an't a deal of difference
between a fine man and another one, when they're shot through and
through.'
'They're not all shot,' said Joe.
'No,' the Lion answered, 'not all. Those that are--supposing it's done
easy--are the best off in my opinion.'
'Ah!' retorted Joe, 'but you don't care for glory.
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