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The Sergeant More stepped softly on his tiptoes six steps into the kitchen, then six steps noisily back again and put his head in. "What's your will, Captain?" said he, polishing a tray with the corner of his brattie. "Give this boy some dinner, for me," said the Paymaster. "There is nothing at our place to-day but herrings, and it's the poorest of meals for melancholy.
The chorus was ringing, the glasses and the Paymaster's stick were rapping on the table, the Sergeant More, with a blue brattie tied tight across his paunch to lessen its unsoldierly amplitude, went out and in with the gill-stoups, pausing now and then on the errand to lean against the door of the room with the empty tray in his hand, drumming on it with his finger-tips and joining in the officers' owercome.
"I did, that!" said Jean Clerk, lifting her brattie and preparing to weep, "and it'll be the last time I'll ever be inside its hospitable door." "And you gave the key to Cameron the shepherd?" "I did," said Jean, wondering what was to come next.
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