"Sir," said Macpherson, his smile suddenly fading, "Caldwell was only joking, very wrong, I own, but he's young, sir."
The cord dropped from Graeme's hands.
"What did you say his bloody name was?"
"Caldwell, sir, General Belfield's A.D.C."
A slash of the knife, and the rope lay in pieces on the ground.
"Be off," he said, "cackle as much as you like, I won't touch you. It's the way you and the rest of the brood have been brought up. Go and chatter about your Commander-in-Chief, if you will; I've stood it for years, and despise it. Clear!"
Silently Caldwell saluted and went, and for a minute an awkward pause followed. Graeme stood looking after the retreating figure, and, then suddenly throwing himself forward on to his hands, he turned a couple of cartwheels and once more came back to the group.
"What's the night's bag," he said, "a good un, ain't it, and mixed?"
"I don't know yet for certain, sir," answered Macpherson. "There are four generals killed, and close on seven thousand officers and men either dead or wounded. The missing, of course, I don't count."
"Hurrah! That'll make 'em sing Rule Britannia at home; a jolly good lesson to 'em, though they'll forget it in a year. Think we're going to win, Mac?"