There was a general stampede out of the room. Jubbock only was left in it, and Hanlon, who had been shaving behind the door, and was not visible.
The men came trooping back, headed by the colour-sergeant—a stout, consequential little man, who felt that his position was only second in dignity to that of the commander-in-chief.
‘No man must leave the room. You, Corporal Closky, see to that. Now, Sergeant Limpetter, we’ll take the beds with their kits as they come.’
The search was regularly and carefully conducted amid a decorous silence.
All at once there was a loud shout. The money had been discovered in one of the packs.
It was Herbert’s.
‘Larkins,’ cried the colour-sergeant, ‘I’d never have believed it.’
There was a hubbub of voices, the prominent expressions being, ‘I told you so,’ or ‘What did I say?’ followed by a hoarse shout for vengeance, for condign punishment of the despicable thief.
‘A court-martial! a barrack-room court-martial,’ cried several men in a breath, and the cry was taken up by the room.