“By Jove! You don’t say so. Here—come along to our hut and have a glass of grog. We’ve got some left, and it’ll set you up again.”
He had hooked an arm into one of each of them in that boyish impulsive way which had gone so far to build up his popularity with all in the camp. The men stared.
“Well, you are a good sort, whoever you are,” said one of them. “But we daren’t.”
“Oh, it’ll be all right. Good old Chambers won’t know. He’s too much taken up with reading his post.”
“Well, we can’t do it, sir—at least not until we’re dismissed,” the man added, rather wistfully. “By the way, is there a Mr Selmes in the camp? Maybe you’re him—are you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Why, there are letters for you then, with those we’ve brought. They’ll be in there—with the Inspector.”
“Hurrah!” cried Dick. “And, I say, you fellows. As soon as you can break loose, don’t forget. There’s a glass of grog going over there. That’s our hut—mine and Greenoak’s,” pointing it out.
Then Chambers came forth. The men saluted, and retired.
“Letters for you, just come, Selmes,” said that genial officer.