"No, and don't want to; but you did eat a four or five pound eel that you'd no right to catch." "That I didn't, sir. I give it to poor old Jenk to make a pie. I never tasted it." "Then you may catch as many as you like, Ben, without asking." "Thank you, sir; but I don't want to go eeling now. Here, let's have all this fighting-tackle so as you can see your face in it. But I say, my lad, do 'ee, now do 'ee, alter your mind; leave being statesman to them soft, smooth kind o' fellows like Master Pawson." "I don't see why one couldn't be a statesman and a soldier too," said the boy. "I don't know nothing about that sort, sir; but I do know how to handle a sword or to load a gun. I do say, though, as you're going wrong instead of right." "How?" "How, sir? Just look at your hands." "Well, what's the matter with them?" said the boy, holding them out. Ben Martlet uttered a low, chuckling laugh. "I'll tell you, sir. S'pose any one's badly, and the doctor comes; what does he do first?" "Feels his pulse." "What else?" "Looks at his tongue." "That's it, my lad; and he knows directly from his tongue what's the matter with him. Now, you see, Master Roy, I aren't a doctor." "Not you, Ben; doctors cure people; soldiers kill 'em." "Not always, Master Roy," said the old fellow, whose face during the last few minutes had lit up till he seemed in the highest of glee. "Aren't it sometimes t'other way on? But look here: doctors look at people's tongues to see whether they wants to be physicked, or to have their arms or legs cut off. I don't. I looks at a man's hand to see what's the matter with him, and if I see as he's got a soft, white hand like a gal's, I know directly he's got no muscles in his arms, no spring in his back, and no legs to nip a horse's ribs or to march fifty mile in a day. Now, just look at yours." "Oh, I can't help what my hands are like," said the boy, impatiently. "Oh, yes, you can, sir. You've been a-neglecting of 'em, sir, horrible; so just you come to me a little more and let me harden you up a bit. If you've got to be a statesman, you won't be none the worse for being able to fight, and ride, and run. Now, will you? and--There's some one a-calling you, my lad." "Yes, coming!" cried Roy; and he hurried out of the armoury into a long, dark passage, at the end of which a window full of stained glass admitted the sunbeams in a golden, scarlet, blue, and orange sheaf of rays which lit up the tall, stately figure of a lady, to whom the boy ran with a cry of-- "Yes, mother!" CHAPTER TWO. ROY'S MOTHER AND TUTOR.