a-laughing. But what be you a-peepin' out o' the window for?"
'Oh, uncle, here's a regiment of soldiers coming down the street with the band playing in front of them.'
'A ridgment, eh? Where be my glasses? Lor' but I can hear the band, as plain as plain! Here's the pioneers an' the drum-major! What be their number, lass?'
His eyes were shining and his bony yellow fingers, like the claws of some fierce old bird, dug into her shoulder.
'They don't seem to have no number, uncle. They've something wrote on their shoulders. Oxfordshire, I think it be.'
'Ah, yes!' he growled. 'I heard as they'd dropped the numbers and given them new-fangled names. There they go, by Jimini! They're young mostly, but they hain't forgot how to march. They have the swing—ay, I'll say that for them. They've got the swing.'
He gazed after them until the last files had turned the corner and the measured tramp of their marching had died away in the distance.
He had just regained his chair when the door opened and a gentleman stepped in.
'Ah, Mr Brewster! Better to-day?' he asked.
