"I've got a despatch," said Stannard, gruffly; "but I want to see the colonel before I speak of it." Then the colonel's voice was heard,—
"That you, Stannard? Come in here."
And the major passed into the tent. Presently he came out, took Truscott by the arm and led him away.
"No use talking to him to-night. He has nothing but the official despatches, and they look ugly for Ray. There are other things that occupy him now, but what we want is to see Gleason right off. He is ordered to return at once, and goes back in the morning. Come."
Over in the second battalion a sentry pointed out Gleason's tent. Stannard scratched and rattled at the flap. No answer. "Gleason!" he called. No reply. "He's shamming sleep, by gad!" growled the major, between his teeth. "It's only fifteen minutes since Billings told him he was to start back at daybreak. He wants to avoid us, and has his flaps all tied inside. I'll have him out or bring his damned tent down about his ears." And it was plain that Stannard was getting excited. An officer came through the gloom. It was Captain Webb.
"Isn't this Gleason's tent?" called the major.
"Certainly. I left him there not half an hour ago," replied the captain. "Wake him up. He's got to go back in the morning."
"Yes, sir. And that's just what I want to see him about. Hullo! you there! Gleason!"
There came from within a snort, as of one suddenly awakened, a sleepy yawn, an imbecile "Oh—ah—er—who is it?"
"It's me,—Stannard; and I want you," was the reply, all the more forcible for being ungrammatic.