‘G’long; I want no more truck with you. Clear out, or you’ll be put out.’ ‘What’s your colonel’s name? I want to see him.’ ‘You can’t want to see him if you don’t know his name.’ ‘I do, though, on business.’ ‘Pretty business! A tramp like you can’t have no business here at all, much less with the colonel or any other officer of ours.’ ‘Won’t you pass me in?’ ‘I won’t, there, that’s flat.’ ‘All right; I’ll wait till some one comes out.’ Herbert coolly seated himself a little way down upon the slope of the glacis. If the sergeant meant to dislodge him it could only be by force. The fact was our hero was meditating a serious step. The disappointment of not finding his old friends where he had left them was great. He had perhaps overrated the assistance which Mrs. Larkins could give him in substantiating his claims, but he had looked for advice from them as to the disposal of his immediate future. How was he now, unknown and seemingly without a friend in the world, to find employment? That was the serious question he was called upon to solve, and that without unnecessary delay. His pockets were empty, his clothes--such as he had not pawned--had reached that stage of irretrievable seediness which clothes worn uninterruptedly for weeks will always assume. He might or might not be the heir of the Farringtons. What did it matter who he was or might be if he died of starvation before he could prove his case? These wholesome reflections led him to accept the only means of livelihood which offered just then. He would enlist. Why not? He had been brought up within sound of the drum; his earliest recollections and associations were connected with the barrack. The life might be rough compared to the luxury of Deadham, but at least he would be fed, clothed and housed, and he need not stand still. The theory of the marshal’s baton, which every knapsack is said to contain, is not exactly supported by fact in the British Army, but times were not what they had been, and he might now hope to rise rapidly enough. Yes, he would take the shilling and join the Duke’s Own Fusiliers. These were the words he addressed to the first officer who issued from the gates. It happened to be the adjutant himself. Mr. Wheeler was the beau ideal of a smart young soldier, quick and energetic in movement, with an eagle eye to take in the ‘points’ of a possible recruit. ‘Want to enlist, do you? Hey, what, what, what? Where do you come from? Won’t say, I suppose? Where do you belong to? Don’t know, of course. What’s your age? You won’t tell the truth. Height? we can see to that. Health? are you sound in wind and limb? hey, what, what, what?’