"Yes, sir."
"You don't, that drawn mug of yours gives you away, we shall, though. The old green-backs, yonder," waving his hand to the north, "are in for a hell of a hiding. Like my hat?" suddenly addressing the open-mouthed Newton.
"N-no, sir."
"Boil my lights," suddenly becoming furious, "d'ye hear that, MacSporran? He don't like my hat. Well, well, nor does Moleyns; and that reminds me I'm due at the talking shop at nine. Holy trousers!" pulling out a frying pan of a watch, "half-past by my old chest protector. Tra la! tra la!" and gathering up his skirts the Commander-in-Chief skipped nimbly over the rails guarding the hospital entrance, and jumping on his horse galloped away to Headquarters, flakes of mud and sprays of dirty water flying around him.
From the marquee behind a man emerged, his white apron and sleeves splashed with blood, and joined Macpherson, who was now alone, Glover and Newton having ridden away together.
"Morning, Sir George," said the P.M.O., turning to the new-comer; "pretty busy in there, aren't you? Gad, but the country ought to be grateful to you."
"Bah!" said the latter, a famous London surgeon, now on self-imposed duty with the British expeditionary force, while a thousand patients were left lamenting in town behind him.
"Isn't that Sir Hector Graeme riding away?"
"Yes."
"Commander-in-Chief, now, isn't he?"