"'Ello, Gingeair!"

Last of the bunch comes Petit Jean, a chubby and close-cropped
youth of about six. Petit Jean is not his real name, as he himself
indignantly explained when so addressed by Major Wagstaffe.

"Moi, z'ne suis pas Petit Jean; z'suis Maurrrice!"

Major Wagstaffe apologised most humbly, but the name stuck.

Petit Jean is an enthusiast upon matters military. He possesses a
little wooden rifle, the gift of a friendly "Écossais," tipped with a
flashing bayonet cut from a biscuit-tin; and spends most of his time
out upon the road, waiting for some one to salute. At one time he used
to stand by the sentry, with an ancient glengarry crammed over his
bullet head, and conform meticulously to his comrade's slightest
movement. This procedure was soon banned, as being calculated to bring
contempt and ridicule upon the King's uniform, and Petit Jean was
assigned a beat of his own. Behold him upon sentry-go.

A figure upon horseback swings round the bend in the road.

"Here's an officer, Johnny!" cries a friendly voice from the farm
gate.

Petit Jean, as upright as a post, brings his rifle from stand-at-ease
to the order, and from the order to the slope, with the epileptic
jerkiness of a marionette, and scrutinises the approaching officer
for stars and crowns. If he can discern nothing but a star or two, he
slaps the small of his butt with ferocious solemnity; but if a crown,