"It is the room on the left," said Robson.
"Anyone in the room on the right?"
"No, I think not—I'm sure not. You are over the stable and that; Pinckney and I are a few yards away, over the laundry. Good-night."
"Good-night, Robson. I say, Robson!"
"Well?"
"Who is Pinckney?"
"Son of a brother officer of the Colonel's. Comes from town, I fancy."
"What does he do—besides making an ass of himself?"
"He writes, I think."
"I'm not surprised; he's got cheek enough for anything! Good-night, Robson."