"Are you going away?"
It was Jack who spoke, and who stood at the door of Captain Willoughby's room, looking at the half-filled portmanteaus, and the general chaos of a man's quarters when he is on the point of departure. It was before breakfast, and being a rainy morning, Jack was wandering about the passages seeking for some occupation.
Captain Willoughby looked up from his employment. He was vainly trying to strap a Gladstone bag, and was muttering imprecations under his breath.
"Now then, young shaver, what do you want? You children are always turning up when you aren't desired. I have to thank your small sister yesterday for an interruption which proved disastrous!"
Jack edged himself in, and climbed up to the iron foot-rail of the bed, where he sat swinging his legs.
"Why are you going?"
"You didn't really think I had taken up my quarters here for good and all, did you?"
Captain Willoughby's tone was distinctly irritable.
"You needn't be waxy," said Jack cheekily. "There's one thing! I know you'll be back again before long!"
"Shall I?" said the Captain, giving a vicious tug to his straps. "I shall volunteer to go out to India with the next draft; I'm sick of England."