Good morning!"
By punctilious attention to this sound advice Angus soon began to
build up a reputation. He treated war-worn veterans like Bobby
Little with immense respect, and this, too, was counted to him for
righteousness. He exercised his platoon with appalling vigour. Upon
Company route-marches he had to be embedded in some safe place in the
middle of the column; in fact, his enormous stride and pedestrian
enthusiasm would have reduced his followers to pulp. At Mess he was
mute: like a wise man, he was feeling for his feet.
But being, like Moses, slow of tongue, he provided himself with an
Aaron. Quite inadvertently, be it said. Bidden to obtain a servant for
his personal needs, he selected the only man in the Battalion whose
name he knew--Private Bogle, the _ci-devant_ painter of houses. That
friendly creature obeyed the call with alacrity. If his house-painting
was no better than his valeting, then his prospects of a "contrack"
after the War were poor indeed; but as a Mess waiter he was a joy for
ever. Despite the blood-curdling whispers of the Mess Corporal, his
natural urbanity of disposition could not be stemmed. Of the comfort
of others he was solicitous to the point of oppressiveness. A Mess
waiter's idea of efficiency as a rule is to stand woodenly at
attention in an obscure corner of the room. When called upon, he
starts forward with a jerk, and usually trips over something--probably
his own feet.
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