"What for are ye stan'in' there, ye fule?" asked his new friend. "What
for didna ye gang for the whusky?"

"It's here, sir."

"My certy, ye dinna let the grass grow under your feet," said the
Highlander; and he added, "If ye want to run errands, laddie, ye can
come back again."

It was the beginning of a fresh life for John Broom. With many other
idle or homeless boys he now haunted the barracks, and ran errands for
the soldiers. His fleetness of foot and ready wit made him the
favourite. Perhaps, too, his youth and his bright face and eyes pleaded
for him, for British soldiers are a tender-hearted race.

He was knocked about, but never cruelly, and he got plenty of coppers
and broken victuals, and now and then an old cap or pair of boots, a
world too large for him. His principal errands were to fetch liquor for
the soldiers. In arms and pockets he would sometimes carry a dozen
bottles at once, and fly back from the canteen or public-house without
breaking one.

Before the summer was over he was familiar with every barrack-room and
guard-room in the place; he had food to eat and coppers to spare, and he
shared his bits with the mongrel dogs who lived, as he did, on the
good-nature of the garrison.

It must be confessed that neatness was not among John Broom's virtues.
He looped his rags together with bits of string, and wasted his pence or
lost them. The soldiers standing at the bar would often give him a drink