“One of Brathwaite’s chaps?”
“Not a ‘swell,’ is he?” was the varying comment as he passed.
True to his promise, Claverton, as soon as he had seen to the requirements of his men and posted his sentries, made his way to Jim Brathwaite’s tent. That jovial leader wae busily occupied in setting out a variety of stores comestible upon a couple of upturned packing-cases; preserved-meat tins, biscuit, pepper and salt, cheese, knives and forks, and plates of debatable crockery warranted not to break, while upon the ground stood several bottles of Bass, and two or three of something stronger.
“Now, Klaas,” he was saying to his sable acolyte, “I don’t want you here any more, so collar that bucket and go and ‘skep’ out some water from the clean part of the river—up above; you understand. And look out that the sentries don’t shoot you, or your own countrymen either. Hallo, Arthur! here we are. Got a dinner-party on to-night.”
“Looks like it—”
“Rather! No one admitted if not in evening-dress,” cried Armitage, bursting into the tent, followed by Naylor and another man belonging to the troop.
“Where’s the post-horn, Jack?” was Claverton’s first inquiry.
“Left it at home,” replied Armitage, looking rather sheepish.
“Now bring yourselves to an anchor,” cried Jim. “You must sit where you can, and balance your plates somehow. They forgot to send a supply of tables. Here, Klaas, drag in that stew. We won’t wait for the other fellows.”
“Won’t ye? Indade and that’s illigant of ye! Company manners, I should call it!” And the speaker—a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, with a curly, reddish beard—entered the tent, a whimsical expression lurking in his blue Milesian eyes. His companion—a volunteer officer, by name Barlow—not looking where he was going, stumbled over the tent-rope and would have fallen had not the Irishman caught him in his athletic grasp.