Members of the garrison itself were, of course, frantically jealous of all who had the better luck to belong to the expeditionary force.  That they were not under orders for the East was the daily burden of complaint in every barrack-room and guard-house upon the Rock.  The British soldier is an inveterate grumbler; he quarrels perpetually with his quarters, his food, his clothing, and his general want of luck.  Just now the bad luck of being refused a share in an arduous campaign, with its attendant chances of hardships, sufferings, perhaps a violent death, made every soldier condemned to remain in safety at Gibraltar discontented and sore at heart.

“No orders for us by the last mail, Hyde,” said a young sergeant of the Royal Picts, as he walked briskly up to the entrance of the Waterport Guard.

A tall, well-grown, clean-limbed young fellow of twenty-four or five:  one who prided himself on being a smart soldier, and fully deserved the name.  He was admirably turned out; his coatee with wings, showing that he belonged to one of the flank companies, fitted him to perfection; the pale blue trousers, the hideous fashion of the day, for which Prince Albert was said to be responsible, were carefully cut; his white belts were beautifully pipe-clayed, and the use of pipe-clay was at that time an art; you could see your face in the polish of his boots.  A smart soldier, and as fine-looking a young fellow as wore the Queen’s uniform in 1854.  He had an open, honest face, handsome withal; clear bright grey eyes, broad forehead, and a firm mouth and chin.

“Worrying yourself, as usual, for permission to have your throat cut.  Can’t you bide your time, Sergeant McKay?”

The answer came from another sergeant of the same regiment, an elder, sterner man—­a veteran evidently, for he wore two medals for Indian campaigns, and his bronzed, weather-beaten face showed that he had seen service in many climes.  As a soldier he was in no wise inferior to his comrade:  his uniform and appointments were as clean and correct, but he lacked the extra polish—­the military dandyism, so to speak—­of the younger man.

“War is our regular trade.  Isn’t it natural we should want to be at it?” said Sergeant McKay.

“You talk like a youngster who doesn’t know what it’s like,” replied Sergeant Hyde.  “I’ve seen something of campaigning, and it’s rough work at the best, even in India, where soldiers are as well off as officers here.”

“Officers!” said McKay, rather bitterly.  “They have the best of it everywhere.”

“Hush! don’t be an insubordinate young idiot,” interposed his comrade, hastily.  “Here come two of them.”

The sergeants sprang hastily to their feet, and, standing strictly to attention, saluted their superiors in proper military form.

“That’s what I hate,” went on McKay.

“Then you are no true soldier, and don’t know what proper discipline means.  They are as much bound to salute us as we them.”