“You are right,” says Mr. George.

“What college,” pursues Bagnet, “could you set up in life—­with two penn’orth of white lime—­a penn’orth of fuller’s earth—­a ha’porth of sand—­and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money?  That’s what the old girl started on.  In the present business.”

“I am rejoiced to hear it’s thriving, Mat.”

“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, acquiescing, “saves.  Has a stocking somewhere.  With money in it.  I never saw it.  But I know she’s got it.  Wait till the greens is off her mind.  Then she’ll set you up.”

“She is a treasure!” exclaims Mr. George.

“She’s more.  But I never own to it before her.  Discipline must be maintained.  It was the old girl that brought out my musical abilities.  I should have been in the artillery now but for the old girl.  Six years I hammered at the fiddle.  Ten at the flute.  The old girl said it wouldn’t do; intention good, but want of flexibility; try the bassoon.  The old girl borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster of the Rifle Regiment.  I practised in the trenches.  Got on, got another, get a living by it!”

George remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose and as sound as an apple.

“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet in reply, “is a thoroughly fine woman.  Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day.  Gets finer as she gets on.  I never saw the old girl’s equal.  But I never own to it before her.  Discipline must be maintained!”

Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up and down the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned by Quebec and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens, over which Mrs. Bagnet, like a military chaplain, says a short grace.  In the distribution of these comestibles, as in every other household duty, Mrs. Bagnet developes an exact system, sitting with every dish before her, allotting to every portion of pork its own portion of pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and even mustard, and serving it out complete.  Having likewise served out the beer from a can and thus supplied the mess with all things necessary, Mrs. Bagnet proceeds to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state.  The kit of the mess, if the table furniture may be so denominated, is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done duty in several parts of the world.  Young Woolwich’s knife, in particular, which is of the oyster kind, with the additional feature of a strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks the appetite of that young musician, is mentioned as having gone in various hands the complete round of foreign service.