My expedition was all the talk that day and that night,and the boys were very good to me,and made much of me,and seemed to have forgotten their vexation and disappointment,and come to be as anxious for me to hive those ogres and set those ripe old virgins loose as if it were themselves that had the contract.Well,they WERE good children --but just children,that is all.And they gave me no end of points about how to scout for giants,and how to scoop them in;and they told me all sorts of charms against enchantments,and gave me salves and other rubbish to put on my wounds.
But it never occurred to one of them to reflect that if I was such a wonderful necromancer as I was pretending to be,I ought not to need salves or instructions,or charms against enchantments,and,least of all,arms and armor,on a foray of any kind --even against fire-spouting dragons,and devils hot from perdition,let alone such poor adversaries as these I was after,these commonplace ogres of the back settlements.
I was to have an early breakfast,and start at dawn,for that was the usual way;but I had the demon's own time with my armor,and this delayed me a little.It is troublesome to get into,and there is so much detail.
First you wrap a layer or two of blanket around your body,for a sort of cushion and to keep off the cold iron;then you put on your sleeves and shirt of chain mail --these are made of small steel links woven together,and they form a fabric so flexible that if you toss your shirt onto the floor,it slumps into a pile like a peck of wet fish-net;it is very heavy and is nearly the uncomfortablest material in the world for a night shirt,yet plenty used it for that --tax collectors,and reformers,and one-horse kings with a defective title,and those sorts of people;then you put on your shoes --flat-boats roofed over with interleaving bands of steel --and screw your clumsy spurs into the heels.Next you buckle your greaves on your legs,and your cuisses on your thighs;then come your backplate and your breastplate,and you begin to feel crowded;then you hitch onto the breastplate the half-petticoat of broad overlapping bands of steel which hangs down in front but is scolloped out behind so you can sit down,and isn't any real improvement on an inverted coal scuttle,either for looks or for wear,or to wipe your hands on;next you belt on your sword;then you put your stove-pipe joints onto your arms,your iron gauntlets onto your hands,your iron rat-trap onto your head,with a rag of steel web hitched onto it to hang over the back of your neck --and there you are,snug as a candle in a candle-mould.This is no time to dance.Well,a man that is packed away like that is a nut that isn't worth the cracking,there is so little of the meat,when you get down to it,by comparison with the shell.
The boys helped me,or I never could have got in.Just as we finished,Sir Bedivere happened in,and I saw that as like as not I hadn't chosen the most convenient outfit for a long trip.How stately he looked;and tall and broad and grand.He had on his head a conical steel casque that only came down to his ears,and for visor had only a narrow steel bar that extended down to his upper lip and protected his nose;and all the rest of him,from neck to heel,was flexible chain mail,trousers and all.But pretty much all of him was hidden under his outside garment,which of course was of chain mail,as I said,and hung straight from his shoulders to his ankles;and from his middle to the bottom,both before and behind,was divided,so that he could ride and let the skirts hang down on each side.
He was going grailing,and it was just the outfit for it,too.I would have given a good deal for that ulster,but it was too late now to be fooling around.The sun was just up,the king and the court were all on hand to see me off and wish me luck;so it wouldn't be etiquette for me to tarry.
You don't get on your horse yourself;no,if you tried it you would get disappointed.They carry you out,just as they carry a sun-struck man to the drug store,and put you on,and help get you to rights,and fix your feet in the stirrups;and all the while you do feel so strange and stuffy and like somebody else --like somebody that has been married on a sudden,or struck by lightning,or something like that,and hasn't quite fetched around yet,and is sort of numb,and can't just get his bearings.Then they stood up the mast they called a spear,in its socket by my left foot,and I gripped it with my hand;lastly they hung my shield around my neck,and I was all complete and ready to up anchor and get to sea.Everybody was as good to me as they could be,and a maid of honor gave me the stirrup-cup her own self.There was nothing more to do now,but for that damsel to get up behind me on a pillion,which she did,and put an arm or so around me to hold on.
And so we started,and everybody gave us a goodbye and waved their handkerchiefs or helmets.And everybody we met,going down the hill and through the village was respectful to us,except some shabby little boys on the outskirts.
They said:
"Oh,what a guy!"And hove clods at us.
In my experience boys are the same in all ages.They don't respect anything,they don't care for anything or anybody.They say "Go up,baldhead"to the prophet going his unoffending way in the gray of antiquity;they sass me in the holy gloom of the Middle Ages;and I had seen them act the same way in Buchanan's administration;I remember,because I was there and helped.
The prophet had his bears and settled with his boys;and I wanted to get down and settle with mine,but it wouldn't answer,because I couldn't have got up again.I hate a country without a derrick.