The Assistant-Paymaster clambered off. His vanity was wounded and he showed it; the mottles on his face deepened to crimson. "Beg pardon—ceremony—hardly an occasion—treasure of the army in danger."
Paget eyed him calmly, but with a darkening at the corner of the eye; a sign which the watching subaltern knew to be ominous.
"Be a little more explicit, if you please."
"The treasure, Sir, for which I am responsible——"
"Yes? How much?"
"I am not sure that I ought——"
"How much?"
"If you press the question, Sir, it might be twenty-five thousand pounds. I should not have mentioned it in the hearing of your men——" he hesitated.
The General concluded his sentence for him. "—Had not your foresight placed it in safety and out of their reach: that's understood. Well, Sir,—what then?"
"But, on the contrary, General, it is in imminent peril! The carts conveying it have stuck fast, not a mile ahead: the bullocks are foundered and cannot proceed; and I have ridden back to request that you supply me with fresh animals."