To-day, however, a supreme effort had been made by Bumps to crush once and for always this insolent questioner of his infallibility, and it was with a glow of anticipatory triumph in his heart, revealed by the twinkle in his small grey eyes, that he now beheld Hector's arrival on the scene.
He returned his salute graciously, and said "Morning, Graeme," a civility awakening instant suspicion in Hector's mind and a muttered "What's Napoleon up to now, I wonder, and what the deuce is the matter with Royle? He looks half dead with funk."
"A little late," continued the General; "almost time to start. All your force is waiting for you to lead them to—victory."
"All, sir?" answered Graeme, looking round. "I don't see the infantry. There are the guns, a section (two) of them, and the cavalry, three squadrons. Those waggons, too, are meant to represent a convoy, I suppose, but no sign of the 'feet.' Am I to take on eight hundred infantry"—there was only that number, as Graeme was naturally aware, in the station—"with three squadrons, two hundred and eighty men in all?" and Hector laughed, a suspicion of the plot dawning upon him. He was to be given an impossible task, was he? Right, then; so much the greater score when he won, as he certainly would.
"You'll know all about it in good time, I've no doubt, Colonel Graeme," answered the other; "but you ought not to think of odds, you know. Dear me, a cavalry officer frightened of infantry—this is something new."
"Not at all, sir. I only wanted to know what was against me. A somewhat usual knowledge, I believe, for a commander to possess."
"The General has just told you, Graeme," put in Royle hastily, "that you'll know all about it in good time. Why can't you wait till them?"
Royle was not quite at his best this morning. Always frightened of a General, he was especially terrified of Bumps; and though ordinarily he had confidence enough in Hector—indeed, he sought his advice on all regimental questions—since seeing the scheme[#] his nerve had left him. Graeme would certainly be defeated, he felt, and on him would fall the blame; for, as he was responsible for the training of his officers, their downfall meant his own.
[#] A printed paper, given to each opposing leader, though naturally differing in each case. On these papers is described an imaginary military situation, followed by the task to be carried out, the actual execution of this being, of course, left to the respective commanders.
Official censure was the one thing most dreaded by Royle, and, though he had escaped it so far, the catastrophe was in sight at last. The sword hung but by a hair, that hair being Graeme's ability to placate; and now, in sheer sport, it seemed that person was making the blade to dance over his head, till the hair must undoubtedly snap in a moment.