“Ted, I was just saying that I’m not quite sure whether I am very glad or not.”
The ensign’s face fell.
“You won’t misunderstand me, old chap, or think I’m jealous, but you’re very young, and too much luck is apt to turn our heads. I’m not saying that you didn’t deserve it, but don’t go about thinking that you’re a very wonderful youngster, for there’s many an ensign here would have done the same. If it makes you conceited, Ted, it will be a very bad thing for you ever to have won it. But if you’re a man, and if you don’t put on ‘side’, all of us will rejoice in your honours.”
Ted was silent for a few moments, then held out his hand to his brother.
“I understand, old man; I know there are many who’d have done it, and perhaps done it better. I’ll try to remember that.”
“Well done, Ted!” cried his cousin. “I think you’ll do, young ’un. Jim’s rather inclined to preach, but he’s all right.”
Ted and Alec repaired to the Flagstaff Tower, the meeting-place of the British camp, situated on the Ridge about a mile north of the Gurkha picket, overlooking the artillery lines and the head-quarters camp, the latter being about half a mile farther to the north-west. From the Flagstaff Tower the road ran straight to the Kashmir Gate, and as the ground was high and the place well out of range, it was a favourite spot whence to gaze at the rebel town.
Ted was very thoughtful, and Alec very silent. The former’s ardour had been damped by his brother’s speech, and he wondered whether Jim really was jealous of his good fortune. He dismissed the idea as unworthy of Jim, whose honour and grit he appreciated fully. Still, it was rather a damper, and he could not help wishing that his brother had been less candid.
It was at the Flagstaff Tower that our friends of the Gurkha picket were accustomed to hear the news of the camp. There they learned of many deeds of valour; of the wonderful daring of Tombs of the Artillery, how he had rescued his equally brave subaltern, Hills, from certain death, and how he had had five horses shot under him already. “One almost every time he goes out,” commented Ensign Collins of the 8th Foot. It was there they had heard of the arrival of Colonel Baird Smith, the chief engineer. “He’s the man who’ll take Delhi,” a youngster of the “Cokeys” had prophesied; and that lad was not far wrong.
But on this day the bearers of news from camp wore troubled looks. Some unwelcome tidings had evidently arrived since Ted’s visit below.