Graeme stared at the paper for a moment, and then laughed.
"I suppose," he said slowly, "there are some who might obey that. I ... won't."
He tore the cables into small pieces, and striking a match carefully burnt the fragments.
"Godwin," he called, "old Gneisenau, come in."
"What is it, sir? Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Serious be hanged, nothing is serious in this life, haven't you found that out in your sixty years? It's all a big joke, Old Un, with someone overhead splitting his sides over it. We don't laugh sometimes, because we're fools; but we should, if we were wise. Ah, there's Bobby outside with the bottle. Come in, Bobby, and fill the glasses. It may be the last we'll have together, and this time to-morrow we'll be laughing at the moon as we pass. We'll have wings up there, Long Nose, bloody wings, and a harp apiece. God! I'll be a trial to the bandmaster, I'll never get the damned thing in tune, give me a month of Sundays to do it. Pop! there she goes; fill up and drink. Here's the bloody toast:
"Damnation to our green friends yonder, and a rope to their best friend, Lawyer Quibble, Secretary of State for War. He'll have it too, when I get back, I promise him.
"But that's treason, Bobby, or near it, anyway, so I'll change it to one we can all drink.
"Here's to the one gentleman in the whole scurvy crowd—the King." He paused. Then with a loud cry of "The King! The King!" he drained his glass, dashed it to the ground, and rushing out of the tent, he mounted his waiting horse, and galloped away into the night.
CHAPTER XXVI