Chapter 52 - Page 2

Ia€™m as stiff as a dead body, and as full of ugly scratches as if I had been fighting all day yesterday with wild cats.a€™

a€˜Youa€™ve so much enthusiasm, thata€™s it,a€™ said Dennis, looking with great admiration at the uncombed head, matted beard, and torn hands and face of the wild figure before him; a€˜youa€™re such a devil of a fellow. You hurt yourself a hundred times more than you need, because you will be foremost in everything, and will do more than the rest.a€™

a€˜For the matter of that,a€™ returned Hugh, shaking back his ragged hair and glancing towards the door of the stable in which they lay; a€˜therea€™s one yonder as good as me. What did I tell you about him? Did I say he was worth a dozen, when you doubted him?a€™

Mr Dennis rolled lazily over upon his breast, and resting his chin upon his hand in imitation of the attitude in which Hugh lay, said, as he too looked towards the door, a€˜Ay, Ay, you knew him, brother, you knew him. But whoa€™d suppose to look at that chap now, that he could be the man he is! Isna€™t it a thousand cruel pities, brother, that instead of taking his nata€™ral rest and qualifying himself for further exertions in this here honourable cause, he should be playing at soldiers like a boy? And his cleanliness too!a€™ said Mr Dennis, who certainly had no reason to entertain a fellow feeling with anybody who was particular on that score; a€˜what weaknesses hea€™s guilty of; with respect to his cleanliness! At five oa€™clock this morning, there he was at the pump, though any one would think he had gone through enough, the day before yesterday, to be pretty fast asleep at that time. But noa€"when I woke for a minute or two, there he was at the pump, and if youa€™d seen him sticking them peacocka€™s feathers into his hat when hea€™d done washinga€"ah! Ia€™m sorry hea€™s such a imperfect character, but the best on us is incomplete in some pint of view or another.a€™

The subject of this dialogue and of these concluding remarks, which were uttered in a tone of philosophical meditation, was, as the reader will have divined, no other than Barnaby, who, with his flag in hand, stood sentry in the little patch of sunlight at the distant door, or walked to and fro outside, singing softly to himself; and keeping time to the music of some clear church bells. Whether he stood still, leaning with both hands on the flagstaff, or, bearing it upon his shoulder, paced slowly up and down, the careful arrangement of his poor dress, and his erect and lofty bearing, showed how high a sense he had of the great importance of his trust, and how happy and how proud it made