“What do you mean?” asked the sergeant-major.
“What I says,” said Sailor, standing to his guns while we, amazed, expected him to be slain before our eyes. “Not a perishin’ bit of breakfast do we get when we go back late.”
“Is that true?” The sergeant-major turned to us.
“Yes,” we said, “perishin’ true!”
“Mount!” ordered the sergeant-major without another word and we trotted straight back to barracks. By the time we’d watered, off-saddled and fed the horses we were as usual twenty minutes late for breakfast. But this morning the sergeant-major, with a face like a black cloud, marched us into the dining-hall and up to the cook’s table.
We waited, breathless with excitement. The cook was in the kitchen, a dirty fellow.
The sergeant-major slammed the table with his whip. The cook came, wiping a chewing mouth with the back of his hand.
“Breakfast for these men, quick,” said the sergeant-major.
“All gone, sir,” said the cook, “we can’t——”