A group of half-a-dozen fellows had gathered
together in the taproom, and were listening with greedy ears. One of
them, a carter in a smockfrock, seemed wavering and disposed to enlist.
The rest, who were by no means disposed, strongly urged him to do so
(according to the custom of mankind), backed the serjeant's arguments,
and grinned among themselves. 'I say nothing, boys,' said the serjeant,
who sat a little apart, drinking his liquor. 'For lads of spirit'--here
he cast an eye on Joe--'this is the time. I don't want to inveigle you.
The king's not come to that, I hope. Brisk young blood is what we
want; not milk and water. We won't take five men out of six. We want
top-sawyers, we do. I'm not a-going to tell tales out of school, but,
damme, if every gentleman's son that carries arms in our corps, through
being under a cloud and having little differences with his relations,
was counted up'--here his eye fell on Joe again, and so good-naturedly,
that Joe beckoned him out. He came directly.
'You're a gentleman, by G--!' was his first remark, as he slapped him
on the back. 'You're a gentleman in disguise. So am I. Let's swear a
friendship.'
Joe didn't exactly do that, but he shook hands with him, and thanked him
for his good opinion.
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