“Besides,” said Classon, rising and turning his back to the fire, while he stuck his hands in his pockets, “I'm an excellent colleague, and, unless the world wrongs me, a most inveterate enemy.”
“Will he live, do you think?” said Terry, with a gesture of his thumb to indicate him of whom he spoke.
“No; impossible,” said Classon, confidently; “he stands in the report fatally wounded, and I have it confidentially that there's not a chance for him.”
“And his claim dies with him?”
“That's by no means so sure; at least, we'd be all the safer if we had his papers, Master Driscoll.”
“Ay!” said Driscoll, knowingly.
“Now, which of us is to do the job, Driscoll? That's the question. I have my claim to see him, as chaplain to the—I 'm not sure of the name of what branch of the service—we'll say the 'Irregular Contingent' Legion. What are you, my respected friend?”
“A connection of the family, on the mother's side,” said Terry, with a leer.
“A connection of the family!” laughed out Classon. “Nothing better.”
“But, after all,” sighed Terry, despondingly, “there's another fellow before us both,—that chap had brought out the news to the camp, Mr. Reggis, from the house of Swindal and Reggis.”