“Who? How should I know?”
“Why, Lieutenant Roberts, the Artillery D.A.Q.M.G. at Delhi. That young man will be a major-general before any of us commands a battalion. He’s a wonderful fellow, but so modest that nobody is jealous.”
“Fine-looking lot those Highlanders!” Alec observed as they passed a group of men wearing the kilt and bonnet and white gaiters.
“They’re the 93rd, I suppose,” said Ted. “Hoot, mon, what for do ye no don the kilt yourself, Sandy?”
“I should like to,” Alec replied. “The 93rd’s a grand regiment, and I’m proud of being a countryman of theirs.”
“Hear, hear!” said Ted. “They look fit.”
The three friends entered the Alambagh enclosure.
“Who are those two?” asked Claude, nodding towards a couple of distinguished-looking officers who were walking about slowly, in earnest conversation.
“Ssh!—not so loud. Why, the older man is Sir Colin himself, and the taller one with glasses is General Mansfield, his chief of staff.”
“Oh!”