“That’s him, Alec!” Ted, regardless of grammar, informed his chum.
He made straight for a lieutenant of the Gurkhas, a tall, jolly-looking man of about five-and-twenty, and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Please, sir,” said the ensign, with great deference and as vacant an expression as possible, “is there an officer of this regiment of pandies named Dorricot, because he’s wanted in camp.”
“Pandies! you impudent puppy!” the enraged lieutenant replied. “Pandies! I like your cheek! My name’s Dorricot. Who wants me?”
“Please, sir, I think it’s a tailor with a lot of unpaid bills—”
The lieutenant opened his mouth, and, gripping Ted’s wrist, looked him squarely in the face. He burst into a laugh.
“Ted Russell! What on earth are you doing here, you cheeky chimpanzee?”
He wrung Ted’s hand heartily, and was unceremoniously introduced to Paterson.
“What are you doing here, Ted?” Dorricot repeated. “Your regiment has mutinied, has it not?”
“Yes. Seeing we were at liberty, the general sent for Paterson and me to come and give him a lift. We’re his military advisers, ain’t we, Alec?”