NEXT morning Jack felt much better. He got up, and, being excused from duty, sat outside his tent in the warm autumn sunshine, much interested in the crowd of sight-seers who thronged amongst the tents, talking and laughing and apparently enjoying themselves.
During the afternoon he saw a figure in Hussar uniform threading his way among the tents. He stopped and spoke to a Lancer, who pointed over in Jack’s direction, when the Hussar came straight towards him.
Jack saw the stranger was a trumpeter apparently about his own age. He looked at Jack, then with a genial smile came up and held out his hand.
‘It’s glad I am to see ye sitting there, honey,’ he said with an Irish brogue. ‘Shure, I made certain ye’d be in the sawdust.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jack; ‘I hope to be fit for duty to-morrow.’
‘I hope ye will; but bedad, whin I see ye go over yesterday I sez, shure we’ll be having a grand military funeral directly. I was close to ye, and could see yer horse had bolted; I went after ye wid one or two of yours.’
‘Yes, I made a fine exhibition of myself,’ said Jack grimly.
‘Faix, ye did a gallant thing, comrade. Ye managed that horse of yers in a way that would have done credit to a rough-rider. It’s here I am to tell ye so.’
Jack looked questioningly at the Irish trumpeter, who had a merry face and roguish eye.
‘Ye’re perhaps wondering who the dickens I am, and what for should I be blathering to ye. Well, I’m Larry O’Callaghan, full thrumpeter, A Troop, 8th Royal Irish Hussars, son of the late thrumpet-major of the rigiment, and, plase the saints, I intind to be thrumpet-major meself some day.’