Charlie looked keenly at his questioner.
“That’s my name, but I don’t know you from the Grand Mogul.”
“That’s not strange; I was only thirteen and in the fourth form at Eton when you left. I’m Fred Roberts, and we were both under the same tutor, the Rev. Eyre Young. You were some years older than I, and I chiefly remember you because I admired the way you once gave a jolly good thrashing to a bully—I forget his name, but he was ill-treating a youngster.”
Charlie laughed and shook hands, saying, “Turkey Bletcher, you mean! So you remember that? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just come. Been with the Movable Column, but applied to come here, and they gave me permission.”
“Are you on the staff?”
“Yes; I’ve just applied for the post of deputy-assistant-quartermaster-general for artillery, and I’ve been lucky enough to get it.”
“So you’re the D. A. Q. M. G., are you?” said Dorricot, with some respect that one so young should have obtained this important post.
They little thought that this slight and young lieutenant was destined to become one of Britain’s greatest and best-beloved soldiers, Field-marshal Earl Roberts of Kandahar and Pretoria, V.C.
“So you’ve been with Nicholson?” said Paterson, who was a great admirer of that frontier hero and demi-god. “He’s a wonderful leader, I suppose?”