“The French took it from the Rifles before we crossed the river. By Jove! I’ll wager my chance of promotion against a pint of sherry, he’ll turn up somewhere in the morning; those Galway chaps have as many lives as a cat.”
“See, now, Maurice, I wouldn’t for a full colonelcy anything would happen to him; I like the boy.”
“So do I myself; but I tell you there’s no danger of him. Did you ask Sparks anything?”
“Ask Sparks! God help you! Sparks would go off in a fit at the sight of me. No, no, poor creature! it’s little use it would be my speaking to him.”
“Why so, Doctor!” cried I, from my straw couch.
“May I never, if it’s not him! Charley, my son, I’m glad you’re safe. ‘Faith, I thought you were on your way to Verdun by this time.”
“Sure, I told you he’d find his way here—But, O’Mealey, dear, you’re mighty could,—a rigor, as old M’Lauchlan would call it.”
“E’en sae, Maister Quill,” said a broad Scotch accent behind him; “and I canna see ony objection to giein’ things their right names.”
“The top of the morning to you,” said Quill, familiarly patting him on the back; “how goes it, old Brimstone?”
The conversation might not have taken a very amicable turn had M’Lauchlan heard the latter part of this speech; but, as happily he was engaged unpacking a small canteen which he had placed in the wagon, it passed unnoticed.