"How came I to 'list, sir? Why, all along o' him. I got in such a mess I had to leave Mr Draycott's."

"How, Jerry? Why?"

"Got wild, sir. I'd been idgit enough to think as I could make a lot o'

money with my savings by putting 'em on hosses, and so soon as I did, sir, they wouldn't win a bit; and, from going to the hosses, I went next to the dogs; and then I was in such a state that there was no chance for me at all; and I wrote to him at last, for I see his name in the paper as being gazetted to the 310th. And what d'yer think he said?"

"I don't know, Jerry," said d.i.c.k, dreamily, for he was again thinking of his own troubles.

"He said I'd better enlist, and then he could have me as his servant again."

"Yes, exactly."

"Well, sir, it's 'bout the last thing I should ever ha' thought o'

doing, but it seemed all right. Officer's servant wouldn't be bad, and there'd sure to be some perks."

"Some what?"

"Perks, sir--perkisites: old boots and shoes and things. So I 'listed six months ago, and here have I, Jeremiah Brigley, been barked at and drilled till I could stand on my head stiff and go through it all."

"Yes, you would have to be drilled," said d.i.c.k, thoughtfully; "and how do you get on as his servant?"

"Get on, sir? As his servant, sir? Why, he on'y laughed at me, and told me he'd got somebody else; and when I turned rusty, and told him he was no gent, he reported me and had me punished. But I wasn't done, then; for, as soon as I was out, I waits my chance, and then I says to him, 'You look out,' I says, 'and mind I don't make it warm for you.'"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, go and tell his colonel, sir, all about his borrowing of old Simpson, the tailor, and throwing the credit about that there cheque on to you. For it was a reg'lar swindle, sir; you didn't get none of that money, as I know. Ah, you should have seen how small he was then! Why, he was quite humble to me, and said it was all a mistake, and, as soon as he could, he'd get me for his servant. But he won't, and a good job for him and me, too, S'Richard, sir."

"Silence, man!"

"I beg pardon, sir. O' course, that's wrong now; but I tell you this, sir: he's made me that wild again with myself, and now about you, sir, that, if I had to cut his hair or strop a razor to shave him, I should chuck the tools out o' window. I daren't go nigh him with such a weppun in my hand."

"Rubbish, Jerry! You're absurd!" cried d.i.c.k, shaking off the thoughts which troubled him as he determined to go to the colonel or Mr Lacey and explain all.

"No, sir, it ain't absurd. Flesh and blood 'll stand a deal, but there comes a time when it won't stand no more. Sir Mark Frayne's one o'

they--Here! hold up, sir; it's your turn now."

For d.i.c.k had started to his feet.

"What?" he cried, huskily. "Say that again."

"What--about Sir Mark, sir?"

"Sir Mark?"

"Oh, yes, sir; you was dead and buried, his father died, and he became Sir Mark. Yes, sir, he's a barrownet now, and got all your tin; and, my word, he does make it fly!"

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

JERRY TO THE FRONT.

d.i.c.k Smithson found himself face to face with a problem that grew harder to solve the more he tried, and, as he lay awake at night, the words of the old, old ballad used to come to him:--

"And for as you have made your bed, so on it you must lie."

A barrack bed, too--a very hard, thin, single Glo'ster-cheese sort of bed! And yet it seemed at the first sight so easy to jump out of it, go and see the colonel--no; he could talk to Lieutenant Lacey, who was always so friendly, and that gentleman would tell the colonel.

Oh, it would be simple enough! So long as it meant his voluntary exile, it was not of so much consequence; and he had always kept in reserve the time when he could go back to his old position in society. But now he found that when he leaped down it was from a high perpendicular rock, and the base of that rock stood in. Around, too, it was smooth; and, now jumping back was out of the question, climbing appeared impossible.

What was to be done? He could not sit still and let Mark hold his t.i.tle and position without a struggle; but how to begin?

Naturally enough, the old state of calm pa.s.sed away, and d.i.c.k's brain was in a state of effervescence as he waited three days for an opportunity to meet and consult with Jerry Brigley. For this had been planned at parting, after Jerry had sworn to be silent until some plan of action had been decided upon.

At last Jerry and he met again, and this time went off for a walk towards the country, accidentally taking the road which d.i.c.k had followed when he first entered the town.

For some time the great subject they had met to discuss was avoided, and they talked about the country round, with its hills and hop-gardens, till Jerry drifted from a remark on the beauty of a sheep-cropped, velvet-green field, with its lawn-like gra.s.s, into a lesson on one of the follies of the day.

"Yes, sir," he said; "feel how soft it is under your feet! Turf's a lovely thing when it's lawns; but when it's horse-racing, and gets hold on yer tight, it's a sort o' Bedlam-Hanwelly business. Don't you never bet, sir. If I hadn't never betted, I should ha' been a rich man now, with two hundred pound in the savings bank, instead of being a private soldier--me, too, as knows more about valetting a gent than half the chaps as goes into service."

"Ah, well, Jerry, don't fret about it; things may get better."

"Ay, sir, they may; but then, you see, they might get wuss."

"Or half-way between. Let's sit down under this tree; I want to talk."

"Not a bad place, sir--fine view o' the Kentish hills. What money a man might make out of chalk, if he had it in some place ready to sell, and people would buy it! Mind my lighting a pipe, sir?"

"Mind? No; I've got pretty well hardened to people smoking about me now. Sorry I can't offer you a cigar, Jerry."

"Pipe's good enough for such as me, sir. There," continued the man, as he filled his briar-root, "aren't I keeping my tongue well in hand?

Haven't called you S'Richard once."

"And you must not, whatever you do."

"Well, sir," said Jerry, lighting up, and half-shutting his eyes as he leaned back meditatively, "sometimes I don't see why not; sometimes it's all t'other. One day I says to myself, 'What's he got to mind? He's livin', and it's all nonsense about his being dead and buried; and, as to that business over the bill and the signature, why, he could fight that down like a gentleman.'"

"Yes, Jerry," said d.i.c.k, dismally; "but I ran away like a coward, and that was like a tacit confession of guilt."

"Like a what confession o' guilt?"

"Silent."

"No, sir: you said something else."

"Tacit, man--tacit."

"Oh, was it, sir. Well, if you say it was tacit, I 'spose it was.