"What game?"
"Cards."
"Ah!" At once, Oliver sent for the sutler and the sergeant, and, waiting for them, tramped up and down. When the men came, he halted and with pointed finger asked Matthews to repeat his story. The interpreter did so.
"And how long did that game last?" demanded Oliver.
Without looking in Kippis' direction, the interpreter answered. "Till revelly," he said.
Fraser grunted, the surgeon smiled broadly. But the captain frowned.
"Of that, later," he said significantly. "Kippis?"
The sergeant stepped forward. "Hit's hall true, sir," he faltered. It was Kippis' misfortune always to look more guilty than he was. With Oliver's angry gaze upon him, he flushed redder than fire.
The captain was only half satisfied. He turned to the sutler. "And you, Blakeley?"
The sutler had a round, jolly figure—a figure that was a living advertisement of the fat-producing quality of his edible wares. At Oliver's question that figure gave a startled bounce, like a kernel of corn on a hot grid. "True, sir, true," he vowed huskily, and coughed in apprehension behind a plump hand.