There was wisdom in this last resolution. The sailors' camp was the Crimean pound. All animals lost or strayed, or, more exactly, stolen, if the truth is to be told, found their way to it. Jack did a large business in horseflesh. Often enough a man, having traced his missing property, was obliged to buy it back for a few shillings, or a glass or two of grog.
It was a general joke in the Crimea that the infantry were better mounted than the cavalry, and that the sailors had the pick of the infantry horses.
"I suppose I must go to the sailors' camp, but it's rather out of my road," said Hyde, as he trudged along under the hot sun.
Many more fortunate comrades, all mounted, overtook and passed him on the way. Each time he heard the sound of hoofs his rage increased against the dishonest rogue who had robbed him of his pony.
"Like a lift, guv'ner?" said a voice behind him. "You shall have this tit chape. Half a sov., money down."
Hyde turned, and saw a blue-jacket astride of the missing pony.
"Buy it, you rascal! why it belongs to me! Where did you get it?"
"I found it, yer honour."
"Stole it, you mean. Get off this instant, or I'll give you up to the provost!" And, so saying, Hyde put out his hand to seize the reins.
"Avast heaving there, commodore," said Jack, digging his heels into the horse, and lifting it cleverly just out of Hyde's reach. "Who finds keeps. Pay up, or you shan't have him. Why, I deserve a pound for looking after the dumb baste."