“And how’s young Woolwich?” says Mr. George.

“Ah!  There now!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from her saucepans (for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her face.  “Would you believe it?  Got an engagement at the theayter, with his father, to play the fife in a military piece.”

“Well done, my godson!” cries Mr. George, slapping his thigh.

“I believe you!” says Mrs. Bagnet.  “He’s a Briton.  That’s what Woolwich is.  A Briton!”

“And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you’re respectable civilians one and all,” says Mr. George.  “Family people.  Children growing up.  Mat’s old mother in Scotland, and your old father somewhere else, corresponded with, and helped a little, and—­well, well!  To be sure, I don’t know why I shouldn’t be wished a hundred mile away, for I have not much to do with all this!”

Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or dust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tin pots and pannikins upon the dresser shelves—­Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnet and young Woolwich opportunely come home.  Mr. Bagnet is an ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers like the fibres of a coco-nut, not a hair upon his head, and a torrid complexion.  His voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not at all unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted.  Indeed there may be generally observed in him an unbending, unyielding, brass-bound air, as if he were himself the bassoon of the human orchestra.  Young Woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer.

Both father and son salute the trooper heartily.  He saying, in due season, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until after dinner and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel without first partaking of boiled pork and greens.  The trooper yielding to this invitation, he and Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass the domestic preparations, go forth to take a turn up and down the little street, which they promenade with measured tread and folded arms, as if it were a rampart.

“George,” says Mr. Bagnet.  “You know me.  It’s my old girl that advises.  She has the head.  But I never own to it before her.  Discipline must be maintained.  Wait till the greens is off her mind.  Then we’ll consult.  Whatever the old girl says, do—­do it!”

“I intend to, Mat,” replies the other.  “I would sooner take her opinion than that of a college.”

“College,” returns Mr. Bagnet in short sentences, bassoon-like.  “What college could you leave—­in another quarter of the world—­ with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella—­to make its way home to Europe?  The old girl would do it to-morrow.  Did it once!”