But he was not promoted. He was "ower wee for a stripe," he told
himself. For the present he must expect to be passed over. His chance
would come later, when he had filled out a little and got rid of his
cough.
The winter dragged on: the weather was appalling: the grousers gave
tongue with no uncertain voice, each streaming field-day. But Wee
Pe'er enjoyed it all. He did not care if it snowed ink. He was a
"sojer."
One day, to his great delight, he was "warned for guard"--a
particularly unpopular branch of a soldier's duties, for it means
sitting in the guard-room for twenty-four hours at a stretch, fully
dressed and accoutred, with intervals of sentry-go, usually in heavy
rain, by way of exercise. When Peter's turn for sentry-go came on he
splashed up and down his muddy beat--the battalion was in billets now,
and the usual sentry's verandah was lacking--as proud as a peacock,
saluting officers according to their rank, challenging stray civilians
with great severity, and turning out the guard on the slightest
provocation. He was at his post, soaked right through his greatcoat,
when the orderly officer made his night round. Peter summoned his
colleagues; the usual inspection of the guard took place; and the
sleepy men were then dismissed to their fireside. Peter remained;
the officer hesitated. He was supposed to examine the sentry in his
knowledge of his duties.
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