"Good-day, Mr. McLean," said the man with chevrons. "Don't disturb yourself, I'll not come in. I know you've been hard at it this morning, and I really hate to ask you to go out again,—but in such a case,"—and Mr. Prank gazed into the glowing sunshine in deep perplexity.
Magnus, watching from the depths of the tent, saw the gleam which no effort of Prank's could keep out of his eyes, with the dangerously solemn lines about the mouth. But poor Rig at such honeyed words from an upper classman, lost what little everyday perception belonged to him. "He's just got to learn for himself, though," thought Magnus, looking on with intense amusement.
Mr. Prank suddenly turned and glanced suspiciously down towards the listener; but Magnus was all quiet, behind his letter.
"You see, Mr. McLean," Prank went on, dropping his voice a little, "I want a man I can trust, to do me a small service. If you are not too much fatigued—it would not take long."
Visions of Mr. Prank for his bosom friend, and Camp Hard suddenly transformed into Elysium, floated before Rig's eyes.
"Yes, sir,—no, sir," he answered, gathering up the points.
"It is really but a minute's work," said Prank with another glance over Rig's head towards Magnus; "but a particular friend of mine has gone on guard without his gloves. Most absent-minded man alive! And if the Com. comes along, he's ruined. So I thought if you would just take them to him—you see I should have to report him. He's on post No. 6."
Mr. Prank held out a pair of immaculate white gloves. But now Rig drew back. To waylay a sentinel on his beat, was something so clearly beyond pleb limits that he took fright.
"Yes, sir," he began; "certainly, sir. But you know, sir, it's against orders, I believe——"
Mr. Prank drew himself up to all his inches.