All this time the gunner was chuckling with suppressed laughter, for he was thoroughly enjoying the joke, being at heart a most good-natured man.
“You can just imagine you’re playing ‘sling the monkey,’” he exclaimed; “’tis a right good game and no mistake!”
Fitzgerald and I, however, had by this time managed to disentangle our arms and legs, and we were on our feet again in a moment. We did not at all appreciate this novel kind of “sling the monkey.”
“Is that the enemy coming over the hill?” I exclaimed in an alarmed voice, and pointing away to the rising ground which, beyond the confines of the fort, rose steep and dark against the primrose-tinted sky.
Mr. Triggs promptly turned his head to look, and in an instant I had snatched the towel from his hand.
“Cut and run, Fitz!” I cried; “I thought I’d gammon him,” and so saying I fled precipitately in the direction of the gunroom tent, my brother-middy hobbling after me as fast as his wounded foot would allow.
Mr. Triggs, however, did not attempt to give chase, feeling, I suppose, that his skylarking days—now that he was on the shady side of fifty—were over. So the worthy warrant-officer contented himself with keeping up a hot and strong running fire of anathemas upon us as long as we remained in sight.
“The bath-sponge, Fitz, the bath-sponge!” I gasped out, as I ran panting into the tent and flung myself upon the ground, which formed the only flooring.
“By Jove! I forgot all about it,” said my hobbling messmate; “I hope old Triggs won’t appropriate it.”
At that moment the real drummer-boy passed our tent whistling a merry air.