Young Johnny asked few questions of the sergeant, but those that he did ask had reference principally to the nature of the life in store for him.
“Well,” said the sergeant, summarizing the whole thing, "look here; eight in the morning revolly—up you get. You can get up at eight, can't you?”
Johnny thought he could manage it at a pinch.
“That's lucky. Well, you have an hour to dress; then comes breakfast—coffee or chocolate, bread and butter, and eggs or what not. Then once a week mornin' stables; twice a week adjutants' parade, one hour; other days, nothing except when for guard or fatigue, which comes (say) once a month. One o'clock, dinner–soup or fish (seldom both), and jint; pudden very rare. Then nothin' till six; six, evenin' stables once a week; other days, reading out loud, half-an-hour. Then nothin' till tattoo, which in crack regiments is mostly half-past eleven. At tattoo, roll-call, and bed. That's the programme."
Young John made some allowance for the gallant fellow's enthusiasm; extreme love of a profession often invests it with an attractive colouring.
“I joined eighteen months ago,” the sergeant continued. “I'm but a young soldier, as you see, but I rose. In six weeks I was made a corporal with 5s. 9d. a day; in six more I was troop sergeant, with 8s. 4.d. That's what I'm getting now; 8s. 4d. ain't bad for eighteen months. You'd do it in half the time.”
“Now look here,” said John. “Don't tell unnecessary lies. If the service was the worst on the face of the earth, I'd join it, because I've what people call, gone
