The tent was Claude’s, and it was pitched to the rear of the Dilkusha, or “Yellow Bungalow” as the soldiers called the palace. Ten days had passed since the raid on Pindijang, and many things had happened in the meanwhile.
Having received reinforcements, Sir Colin had once more occupied his old position a few miles south-east of Lucknow. He meant the final attack upon that city to be deliberate and scientific, not a wild rush, entailing perhaps the sacrifice of thousands of lives in the narrow, winding streets, where Englishmen would be at a disadvantage. There was plenty of time, therefore, for an occasional game of chess.
“Have your revenge?” asked Boldre confidently; and Ted replied that he was willing, when in stalked Paterson.
“Well, how’s the deputy-assistant, extra-honorary, supernumerary aide-de-camp? Is he acting as postman?” asked Ted, noticing that Alec had brought letters.
“The mail has just come in, so I picked yours out to save time. Catch!”
“Thanks, old man!” said Ted, as he picked up the scattered missives. “I’ll do as much for you some day, if ever I become a great man. Here’s one for you, Boldre, from Simla.”
“That’s from the mater, and I owe her one or two already. It’s no end of a fag writing letters. Are yours from home?”
“One is,” Ted replied. “The other is from Aurungpore;” and silence prevailed for several minutes.
“Good news from home, Ted, I hope?” said Alec presently.
“Yes, they’re all well. The pater is wishing he was here with us. He’s been particularly interested in my last letters telling of our doings with the Sirmur Battalion, because he was taken prisoner by the Gurkhas in the Nepal war of 1815, and made friends with a lot of them. The mater is wishing I was back at home. Why do women cross their letters so much, Alec? It’s worse than a Chinese puzzle.”