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"I doot he'll be a prisoner," suggests the faithful Mucklewame to the Transport Sergeant. "Aye," assents the Transport Sergeant bitterly; "he'll be a prisoner. No doot he'll try to pass himself off as an officer, for to get better quarters!" Company Sergeant-Major Pumpherston is now Sergeant-Major of the Battalion. Mucklewame is a corporal in his old company.
Pumpherston once more struck his fork, but this time discreetly on the leg of his chair, and in his own good time made a feeble attack on 'Rule, Britannia. 'This is fair rotten, Macgregor muttered at the third verse, resentful that his love should be apparently enjoying it. 'Remember ye're a sojer, she whispered back, 'an' thole. But she let him find her hand again.
Up till half an hour ago D had, if anything, increased their lead: then dire calamity overtook them. One Pumpherston, Sergeant-Major and crack shot of the Company, solemnly blows down the barrel of his rifle and prostrates himself majestically upon his more than considerable stomach, for the purpose of firing his five rounds at five hundred yards.
Having delivered himself, Sergeant-Major Pumpherston graciously accepted the charger of cartridges which an obsequious acolyte was proffering, rammed it into the magazine, adjusted the sights, spread out his legs to an obtuse angle, and fired his first shot. All eyes were turned upon target Number Seven. But there was no signal.
Pumpherston had become much greyer, stouter, shorter of breath, and was no longer funny. And, as in the past, the prodigious snores of Mr. McOstrich, who still followed his trade of baker, sounded at intervals through the wall without causing the company the slightest concern, and were likewise no longer funny.
Pumpherston intimated, with a stimulating glance round the company, 'an' he's got a tunin' fork, forbye, that saves him wrastlin' for the richt key, as it were. Tune up, Geordie! Mr. Pumpherston deliberately produced the fork, struck it on his knee, winced, muttered 'dammit, and gazed upwards.
The drear performance came to an end amid applause sufficient to satisfy Mrs. Pumpherston. 'Excep' when ye cracked on "arose," ye managed fine, she said to her perspiring mate, and to the hostess, 'What think ye o' that for a patriotic sang, Mistress McOstrich? 'Oh, splendid splendid! replied Mrs. McOstrich with a nervous start.
'It's a patriotic sang in honour, Mrs. Pumpherston started to explain 'Ach, woman! cried her spouse, 'ye've made me loss ma key. He re-struck the fork irritably, and proceeded to inform the company 'It's no exac'ly a new sang, but 'Ye'll be lossin' yer key again, Geordie. With a sulky grunt, Mr.
After supper, which consisted largely of lemonade and pastries, the hostess requested her guests, several being well-nigh torpid, to attend to a song by Mr. Pumpherston. One could not have the latter without the former. 'He's got a new sang, Mrs.
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