'Those regimentals are a bit over the top, aren't
they?' said Sharpe, doubtfully eyeing up Boromir's silver-clasped cloak,
red tunic and circlet.
'How can you breathe in that jacket?' asked Boromir, eyeing up Sharpe's tight bottle-green marksman's uniform.
'At least the Spanish can't see me a mile off' answered Sharpe.
'The Spanish? don't you mean the Orcs?' asked Boromir puzzled.
'No, the Spanish, the forces of Napoleon' said Sharpe.
'Who's Napoleon? Is that another name for Sauron?'
'No, it's another name for Napoleon. Never mind, it is plain you are an orficer. I don't like orficers.'
'I am Boromir, heir to the Steward of Gondor' said Boromir, swelling with pride.
'Not just an orficer, a toff!' spat out Sharpe in disgust.
'What's a toff?' asked Boromir, bemused. Sharpe steps up and looks him up and down.
'If it wasn't for that outlandish outfit I'd swear you were making fun of me...no, you mean it. Well' he said, slapping Boromir on the shoulder 'if you don't know what a toff is, you can't be one. Welcome to Sharpe's Rifles!'
'What's a rifle?' asked Boromir. Sharpe sighed.
'I thought you were my new marksman.'
'Marksman?' said Boromir, cheering up.'Aye, I can shoot straight enough...' Sharpe brightened visibly.
'Great! Never mind the ancient artefacts, you'll fit in well. We are a small close-knit unit dependent on each other as brothers would be, chosen by Elrond, sorry I mean the Duke of Wellington, to be sent out into enemy territory with the whole army dependent on us for their survival...'
Boromir thinks; 'Now where have I come across this situation before....?'