The kindly soldier adjusted the little portmanteau under his head and again sprinkled his head and neck with cold water from the brook. Then saying, ‘Now, lie quietly here till I come back,’ strode off; Jack, in a semi-conscious state, watching the tall, soldierly figure disappear in the distance.
CHAPTER III.
THE ‘DEATH OR GLORY BOYS.’
IN a few minutes Jack was sipping some weak brandy-and-water and munching a sandwich, after which he felt another man.
‘And now, young fellow, where do you propose to steer for?’ asked the soldier.
‘I wanted to get to London,’ replied Jack. ‘But I am afraid that after my late shake up I sha’n’t be able to get as far to-night.’
‘I don’t think you will,’ replied the soldier, ‘unless,’ he added, ‘you are particularly anxious.’
‘The fact is, I’m down on my luck. I’m out of a situation, with very little chance of getting another.’ And then Jack told his story, down to the time when the tramps attacked him.
The soldier listened attentively. ‘That’s just a very lonely bit of road there,’ he said, ‘especially about this time on a Sunday. It was by the merest chance that I happened to pass and hear your cries. I was just returning from the house of one of my officers, to whom I had taken a letter.’
‘Are you an officer?’ asked Jack, looking at the gold lace on the soldier’s cuffs and collar.
The Lancer laughed. ‘Not I, lad,’ he said; ‘I’m simply Sergeant Bob Barrymore.’