"Want to join up, sir!"
The sergeant turned to Polly and grinned, which made his scars move oddly and caused a tremor to shake all his chins. The word "fat" could not honestly be applied to him, not when the word "gross" was lumbering forward to catch your attention. He was one of those people who didn't have a waist. He had an equator. He had gravity. If he fell over, in any direction, he would rock. Sun and drink had burned his face red. Small dark eyes twinkled in the redness like the sparkle on the edge of a knife. Beside him, on the table, were a couple of old-fashioned cutlasses, weapons that had more in common with a meat cleaver than a sword.
"Just like that?" he said.
"Yessir!"
"Really?"
"Yessir!"
"You don't want us to get you stinking drunk first? It's traditional, you know."
"Nosir!"
"I haven't told you about the wonderful opportunities for advancement and good fortune, have I?"
"Nosir!"
"Did I mention how the spanking red uniform will mean you'll have to beat the girls off with a stick?"
"Don't think so, sir!"
"Or the grub? Every meal's a banquet when you march along with us!" The sergeant smacked his belly, which caused tremors in outlying regions. "I'm the living proof!"
"Yes, sir. No, sir. I just want to join up to fight for my country and the honour of the Duchess, sir!"
"You do?" said the corporal incredulously, but the sergeant appeared not to hear this. He looked Polly up and down, and Polly got the definite impression that the man was neither as drunk nor as stupid as he looked.
"Upon my oath, Corporal Strappi, it seems that what we've got ourselves here is nothin' less than a good, old-fashioned patriot," he said, his eyes searching Polly's face. "Well, you've come to the right place, my lad!" He pulled a sheaf of papers towards him with an air of bustle. "You know who we are?"
"The Tenth Foot, sir. Light infantry, sir. Known as the 'Ins-and-Outs', sir," said Polly, relief bubbling through her. She'd clearly passed some sort of test.
"Right, lad. The jolly old Cheesemongers. Finest regiment there is, in the finest army in the world. Keen to join, then, are yer?"
"Keen as mustard, sir!" said Polly, aware of the corporal's suspicious eyes on her.
"Good lad!"
The sergeant unscrewed the top from a bottle of ink and dipped a nib pen in it. His hand hovered over the paperwork. "Name, lad?" he said.
"Oliver, sir. Oliver Perks," said Polly.
"Age?"
"Seventeen come Sunday, sir."
"Yeah, right," said the sergeant. "You're seventeen and I'm the Grand Duchess Annagovia. What're you running away from, eh? Got a young lady in the family way?"
"'e'd 'ave 'ad to 'ave 'elp," said the corporal, grinning. "He squeaks like a little lad."
Polly realized she was starting to blush. But then, young Oliver would blush too, wouldn't he? It was very easy to make a boy blush. Polly could do it just by staring.
"Don't matter anyway," said the sergeant. "You make your mark on this here document and kiss the Duchess and you're my little lad, you understand? My name is Sergeant Jackrum. I will be your mother and your father and Corporal Strappi here will be just like your big brother. And life will be steak and bacon every day, and anyone who wants to drag you away'll have to drag me away too, because I'll be holding onto your collar. And you might well be thinking there's no one that can drag that much, Mr Perks." A thick thumb jabbed at the paper. "Just there, right?"
Polly picked up the pen and signed.
"What's that?" said the corporal.