Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.
Vae Victis!
Great was the astonishment in camp when the man who had been given up as hopelessly missing, and whom everybody by this time had come to think of as dead, turned up safe and sound. Jaded and worn out, however, he sought his tent at once, excusing himself from receiving the hearty congratulations of his friends until after the sleep of which he stood so sorely in need.
Waking at last he opened his eyes, with a start, upon the genial countenance of the Irish doctor.
“Hallo, McShane!”
“An’ what the divil have ye been up to now, Claverton?” began that worthy, without any further ceremony. “Here ye’ve managed to get off bein’ made mincemeat of by the niggurs, and, not content with that, ye must get to punching a fellow’s head, and now he wants to have a shot at ye, av course.”
“Does he?” said Claverton, drily.
“He does.”
“H’m! Well, sit down and have a pipe, McShane, and we’ll talk it quietly over.”
“Ah! that sounds better,” said the good-natured Irishman, in a tone of relief, for he was hoping that the affair might admit of a settlement. “See here, now—what’s it all about? Truscott wants to parade you, and sent me to arrange matters, and that’s about the size of it. Now who acts for you?”