"Devil take you, Radisson," ejaculates Ben familiarly, "such cool impudence would chill the Nick!"
"That is as it may be," retorts Radisson. "Choose! We must be off!"
Again the soldiers cheered.
"Well, there's that turncoat of a Stanhope with his fine airs. I'd rather see him shot next than any one else!"
"Thank you, Ben," said I.
"Come over here, Ramsay," orders Radisson. "That's two. Go on! Five more!"
The soldiers fell to laughing and Ben to pulling at his mustache.
"That money-bag of a La Chesnaye next," mutters Ben. "He's lady enough to faint at first shot."
"There'll be no first shot. Come, La Chesnaye! Three. Go on! Go on, Ben! Your wits work slow!"
"Allemand, the pilot! He is drunk most of the time."