Thus Bob was placed in a most unfortunate and pitiable position, positively _nailed to the service_ for sixteen more years, without ever being allowed to draw a farthing of pay in money, and although he was as good as gold, and true to his colours as steel, he could not "put up" with such hardships as these: he had, he said, enlisted solely because "he thought he should like a soldier's life, and had made up his mind to deserve, and, if possible, to attain promotion." This stroke of pure misfortune had completely crushed all his hopes, he became sullen and morose, and after wearily plodding in the barrack-yard with the heavy burden of his kit (about 60 pounds weight) on his back for four hours during each of six days, he dashed the pack from his back with a heavy thud on the floor of the barrack-room. The expression of his fine open countenance plainly betokened that "something was brewing in Bob's mind," as old Jem Page remarked while burnishing his spurs. When the reveille sounded the next morning at five o'clock, Bob Norris's bed was empty: he had quitted it and scaled the barrack-wall during the night, and was heard of no more as a soldier in our regiment. Now if drunkenness had been the primary cause of this dangerous mistake, few men in the regiment would have been sorry for Bob Norris; but he was a _steady, good motif_ and it was generally thought that he had been most cruelly used; for be it remembered, that notwithstanding he had deserted and so got rid of his troubles, yet he never could be a happy man. A deserter is always in fear of being retaken, and with good reason, for let him be disguised as he may, one soldier can always detect another. Many, very many men who desert give themselves up again solely because they cannot bear the misery consequent on the constant fear of being retaken; and a more lenient punishment is administered to a man who voluntarily surrenders, than if he had given much trouble in his capture. A deserter can be taken and placed in any gaol in Her Majesty's dominions, when the police or military authorities forward the report of his capture to his regiment, if they know it; if not, they publish his description in the _Hue and Cry_. CHAPTER TEN. Though we march, or though we halt, Or though the enemy we assault; Though we're cold, or though we're warm, Or though the sleeping town we storm, Still the merry, merry fife and drum Bid intruding care be dumb; Sprightly still we sing and play, And make dull life a holiday. ------------------------------------------------------------------------