he kitchen-garden into drill-grounds."

"That I would, sir," said the man, flushing up. "The idea of a
beautiful square of ground, where the men might be drilled, and practise
with sword and gun, being used to grow cabbages in. Er! it's horrid!"

Roy laughed.

"You're a rum fellow, Ben," he cried. "I believe you think that people
were meant to do nothing else but fight and kill one another."

"Deal better than spending all their time over books, sir," said the
man; "and you take my advice. You said something to me about being a
statesman some day, and serving the king that way. Now, I s'pose I
don't know exactly what a statesman is, but I expect it's something o'
the same sort o' thing as Master Pawson is, and--You won't go and tell
him what I says, sir?"

"Do you want me to kick you, Ben?" said the boy, indignantly.

"Oh, I don't know, sir," said the man, with a good-humoured smile
lighting up his rugged features; "can, if you like. Wouldn't be the
first time by many a hundred."

"What! When did I kick you?"

"Lots o' times when you was a little un, and I wouldn't let you drown
yourself in the moat, or break your neck walking along the worsest parts
o' the ramparts, or get yourself trod upon by the horses. Why, I've
known you kick, and squeal, and fight, and punch me as hard as ever you
could."

"And did it hurt you, Ben?"

"Hurt me, sir? Not it. I liked it. Showed you was made o' good stuff,
same good breed as your father; and I used to say to myself, `That young
cub'll turn out as fine a soldier as his father some day, and I shall
have the job o' training him.' But deary me, deary me, old England's
a-wasting all away! You aren't got the sperrit you had, my lad; and
instead o' coming to me cheery-like, and saying, `Now, Ben, get out the
swords and let's have a good fence, or a bit o' back-sword or
broad-sword-play, or a turn with the singlestick or staves,' you're
always a-sticking your nose into musty old parchments, or dusty books,
along o' Master Palgrave Pawson. Brrr!"

The latter was a low growl, following a loud smack given to the side of
the helmet, after which, as the lad stood fretting and fuming, the old
servant scrubbed away at the steel furiously.

"It isn't true, Ben," the boy cried at last, indignantly; "and perhaps
I'm going to be a soldier after all, especially if this trouble goes
on."

"Tchaw! trouble goes on!" said the man, changing the steel headpiece for
a cuirass.