“Two rounds with onethird charges ought to do it now, sir,” he announced. “That’ll seat—”
“It can wait a few minutes longer,” said Bush, interrupting him with a shorttempered delight in showing this selfsatisfied skilled worker that his decisions need not all be treated like gospel.
Wellard was in clear sight of them all now, running and walking and stumbling over the irregular surface. He reached the gun gasping for breath, sweat running down his face.
“Please, sir—” he began. Bush was about to blare at him for his disrespectful approach but Wellard anticipated him. He twitched his coat into position, settled his absurd little hat on his head, and stepped forward with all the stiff precision his gasping lungs would allow.
“Mr. Hornblower’s respects, sir,” he said, raising his hand to his hat brim.
“Well, Mr. Wellard?”
“Please will you not reopen fire, sir.”
Wellard’s chest was heaving, and that was all he could say between two gasps. The sweat running down into his eyes made him blink, but he manfully stood to attention ignoring it.
“And why not, pray, Mr. Wellard?”
Even Bush could guess at the answer, but asked the question because the child deserved to be taken seriously.