"Oh, we shall supply your sword, sir; everything, if you entrust us with your commands. There are some gentlemen who advise that you should not go to a military tailor, but to a sword-cutler; and, of course, every gentleman has a right to go where he pleases, but if you will trust me, sir, you shall have a proved blade, of which you will be proud." "Oh, of course I shall trust you," I said hurriedly. "But about size. I think I should like, er--a light, rather smaller-sized sword." "Oh no; excuse me, sir," said the tailor apologetically. "Speaking from experience, sir, no. There was Lieutenant Verney, sir, younger and lighter than you sir, and not so big-boned--Major Verney he is now, a regular customer--said just the same as you did, sir, and we gave way. Consequently he was greatly dissatisfied. He grew, but the sword did not, and he soon had to have another. Now, if I might advise, I should say have a full-size regulation weapon, well balanced with a good heavy hilt. You'll be surprised, big-boned as you are, sir, how soon you will put on muscle and spread out." Of course I gave way, being naturally proud of being considered capable of wielding a full-sized sword, and in due time, though not until I had fretted myself into a great state of excitement, the accoutrements were sent home. It was hard work to assume that indifference which I did not feel, and I'm afraid that I did not deceive anybody save myself. I knew when the things came, for one of the servants came and told me, and I said in a tone suggestive of the idea that I was in the habit of having uniforms sent home, "Have the things placed in my room." The servant stared at me, and I turned away, feeling furiously hot as I longed to run up and tear open the packages and tin boxes to gloat over their contents. But I taught myself to feel that I could not do that now--it would be too boyish, so I suffered tortures as I went out into the grounds to talk to some of our fellows, and try to keep my mind to what was being said. Then came relief in the shape of Morton, who hurried up to the group where I stood. "Hi! Gil Vincent," he cried excitedly. "What's the matter?" I said in what was intended to be a cool way, but decidedly was not. "What's the matter, indeed! They're taking your gorgeous array up into your room. Tin cases and swords, and goodness knows what. Come on!" "Come on?" I said coolly; "what do you mean?" "Hark at him!" cried Morton. "Here he is, as cool as a fish. Don't you want to tog out?" "No. What nonsense!" I said; but I can remember feeling excited as he spoke. "Get out! Don't be a humbug. You're red hot to get into them." "Absurd! Why, I shall be always wearing that sort of thing soon." "Gammon!" cried Morton. "Oh, I say, what a jolly impostor you are, Gil. Come on, lads, let's have him in, and make him paint himself up for our glorification." "Oh, if you all particularly wish it," I said, "I don't mind."