uld
like that."

"Ha!" said the Sergeant; "now, how many would like ham?"

"I'se for a chop," said Joe, working his mouth as if he would get it in
training.

"Right," said the Sergeant, "we'll see about breakfast in the morning.
But you know, Mrs. Oldtimes, we like to start with a good foundation."

And with three cheers for the Sergeant the recruits left the house: all
except Joe, who occupied his old room.

After they were gone, and while Mr. Bumpkin was confidentially conversing
with the landlord in the chimney corner, he was suddenly aroused by the
indomitable Joe bursting into the room and performing a kind of dance or
jig, the streamers, meanwhile, in his hat, flowing and flaunting in the
most audaciously military manner.

"Halloa! halloa! zounds! What be th' meaning o' all this? Why, Joe!
Joe! thee's never done it, lad! O dear! dear!"

There were the colours as plain as possible in Joe's hat, and there was a
wild unmeaning look in his eyes. It seemed already as if the old
intimacy between him and his master were at an end. His memory was more
a thing of the future than the past: he recollected the mutton chops that
were to come. And I verily believe it was brightened by the dawn of new
hopes and aspirations. There was an awakening sense of individuality.
Hitherto he had been the property of another: he had now exercised the
right of ownership over himself; and although that act had transferred
him to another master, it had seemed to give him temporary freedom, and
to have conferred upon him a new existence.

Man is, I suppose, what his mind is, and Joe's mind was as completely
changed as if he had been born into a different sphere. The moth comes
out of the grub, the gay Hussar out of the dull ploughman.

"Why, Joe, Joe," said his old master. "Thee's never gone an' listed, has
thee, Joe?"

"Lookee 'ere, maister," said the recruit, taking off his hat and
spreading out the colours--"Thee sees these here, maister?"

"Thee beant such a fool, Joe, I knows thee beant--thee's been well
brought oop--and I knows thee beant gwine to leave I and goo for a
soger!"

"I be listed, maister."

"Never!" exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin. "I wunt b'lieve it, Joe."

"Then thee must do tother thing, maister. I tellee I be listed; now,
what's thee think o' that?"

"That thee be a fool," said Mr. Bumpkin, angrily; "thee be a
silly-brained--."

"Stop a bit, maister, no moore o' that. I beant thy sarvant now. I be