“Is he the Lieutenant Hodson who once commanded our regiment?” asked Ted, who had heard of the famous freelance.
“That’s the man. He got into trouble with the Guides, and now he’s been allowed to raise this regiment of horse.”
So the two chums waited until both were free from duty, and went down to look at the stalwart Sikh and Pathan horsemen, who afterwards became known to fame as the 9th and 10th Bengal Lancers throughout Hindustan and its frontiers, and in China, Egypt, the Soudan, and Abyssinia. A crowd had gathered round the gaudily-attired “Flamingoes”, who sat their horses proudly, much gratified by the reception. They were about to exercise the horses.
“Not so bad,” said Ted approvingly; “but not quite up to our Guides—eh, Alec?”
“They look good soldiers,” Paterson replied. “Why,—well, I’m blowed! What’s Boldre doing there?”
“Who?”
“Claude Boldre! See, that kid on the rat-tailed dun, with a Flamingo sash. I left him at school, and didn’t even know he’d got a commission. His father’s the colonel of a regiment that mutinied recently, I heard. He’s a decent sort.”
Paterson walked behind his friend, who had not yet perceived them, and dealt him a sounding smack on the thigh.
“Come down off that horse, Boldre!” was his salutation. “Do you imagine yourself a Flamingo?”
“Who are—why, if it ain’t Alec Paterson, by all that’s wonderful! How did you come here?”