He pulled himself together and went on.
"Then up come the orse-captain, great black charger in a lather.
"'What luck?' says he.
"'Why none,' says the foot-captain, little black and red chap, plumpy.
'The Grenadier chaps in the farm-buildings surrendered at discretion.
Plucky fine sportsmen, these French beggars, ain't they?'
"'Well, you was about a thousand to one, Chollie, so I don't know as I blames em,' says the orse-captain, laughin.
"'All very well for you,' grumbles Plumpy, mighty bitter. 'I suppose you bagged all your lot.'
"'Every mother's son on em,' says t'other, chuckin himself off. 'Rare sport. Look there !' and he shows the edge of his sword.
"'Just your luck, Bill,' says Chollie. 'I sweats my soul out to get up in time, and just when I'm there, up you larrups on them blame ole camels o your'n, and dashes the cup from my lips. Who'd be a—foot-slogger?' says he; and he takes the other by the arm; 'Now tell us all about it.'
"'Why that's soon told,' says the orse-captain. 'Them we didn't cut up in the open, we run to earth in a drain, and pots em pretty from the mouth.'
"'Any prisoners?' says Plumpy, mighty keen.