"Yes; six-and-thirty, Smithson--that's all."

"Well, will you let me speak plainly, Mr Brumpton?"

"Of course, I will, my dear boy; I always liked you from the day when you came up to me and wanted the shilling. I said to myself then, 'This chap's a gentleman--'"

"Oh, nonsense--nonsense," cried d.i.c.k.

"Ah! you needn't tell me. I know. But I'm not going to pump you. If you want to keep it dark why you've run away from home, you've a right to. What were you going to say, Smithson?"

d.i.c.k was growing nervous and excited, and jumped at the change in the conversation.

"I was going to say that, as it is such a pity for you to grow so stout, why don't you eat less?"

"Eat! My dear boy, I almost starve myself."

"Drink less, then. If I were you, I wouldn't take so much beer."

"But I don't, Smithson; I don't--I give it up ever so long ago--only ginger, and that can't make me fat. It don't make no difference whether I eat and drink hearty or starve myself: it all goes to fat. I really believe sometimes that the very wind agrees with me and runs to it."

"Then do as the colonel said--train, run, use the clubs."

"I have," cried Brumpton, "for months; but I only get worse."

"Don't sleep quite so much, then."

"Oh, dear!" groaned the sergeant; "I've cut myself down to five hours, and surely that oughtn't to be too much. It's no good, Smithson--not a bit! If I was to be shut up in a lump of coal, like a toad, I should go on getting fat till the coal split up the back, like one of my jackets."

"Well, it does seem hard," said d.i.c.k.

"No, sir; soft--horridly soft," said the sergeant, and he rose with a sigh. "I've felt sometimes that if I get my discharge I shall make an end of myself."

"Nonsense."

"Oh, I shall. I've often thought of drowning myself, after being laughed at, but I couldn't do that."

"I should think not."

"Fat would be against me there, Smithson; I should only float."

The idea of the plump sergeant bobbing about, half out of the water, like a cork-float, excited d.i.c.k's laughing muscles; but he saw how genuine was the distress of the poor fellow standing before him, and he forbore, knowing as he did that a good warm heart beat beneath that coating of fat and that Brumpton was a clever officer and devoted to his work.

"I wish I could help you, sergeant," said d.i.c.k, at last.

"So do I, my lad; but you can't."

"Have you tried the doctor?"

"Yes--yes," said Brumpton, dolefully.

"What did he advise?"

"Nothing! Laughed at me."

d.i.c.k sat, tapping the table with his penholder.

"I know how it will be," continued the sergeant. "I shall be pitched out of the regiment, and then I shall begin to get thin from misery and despair."

"Going?" said d.i.c.k.

"Yes; I'll just walk round to the canteen and get in the scales again.

I try 'em every day, hoping to find 'em moving the wrong way, but I never can. I was seventeen stone thirteen yesterday; next week I shall be eighteen stone, and they can't keep a man like that in the army."

"Stop! Look here!" cried d.i.c.k, so earnestly that the sergeant plumped down again into his seat, gazing wildly into the young man's face, ready to grasp at any straw to save himself from being drowned in his misery.

"Yes, yes," he panted; and he began to wipe his big, smooth face. "Got an idea?"

"I think I could cure you, Mr Brumpton."

"Could you? How? I'll take anything. I don't mind how nasty."

"I've got an idea that I think will work, and, if it doesn't take down your fat, it would keep you from having to leave the regiment."

The sergeant made a grab at d.i.c.k's hand.

"What is it? What is it?" he panted.

"Learn the bombardon!"

The sergeant loosened his grasp, and sank back again.

"You're laughing at me," he said, reproachfully; "and it comes hard from you, d.i.c.k Smithson."

"I'm not laughing at you, sergeant," cried d.i.c.k, earnestly. "Look here!

it's a thing I have often noticed; but I never thought of applying it to you. Who are the two thinnest men in the band?"

"Those two young chaps who play the trombones."

"Exactly, and nearly all the fellows are thin. You learn to play the bombardon, and I'll be bound to say that it will pull you down."

"Think so?" said the sergeant, with a sigh.

"I feel sure!"

"But how can I?"

"Oh, you could manage that. Tell Mr Wilkins you've taken a fancy to learn the instrument. I'll help you."

The sergeant looked doubtful.