"When you hear a bugle-call push on with all your strength," said the latter; "and if you take Saunders prisoner deal gently with him."
Making a detour in order to take all available cover, Trafford led his men towards the starting point of the bob-sleigh run. His movement,—hidden by the configuration of the ground,—was unnoted by the garrison, nor did he meet with any opposition on his way. The hum of the curling-stones led him on, and as he drew nearer the stentorian shouts of the "skippers," as they sung out encouragement to the different members of their sides. When he reached the top of the hill where the run commenced he found himself looking down on to a frozen pond, whereon a number of sunburnt men were plying brooms in front of a slithering curling-stone.
"Sweep, boys, sweep!" yelled out Major Flannel. "Bring it all the way! It'll be a 'Jimmy Hobbs' when it stops. Up besoms, lads! It's drawn the port! Thank you, Hobbs—it's a beauty—right on the pot lid. Man, you're a curler!"
"I beg your pardon," Trafford interrupted, descending on to the ice, and saluting. "I am sorry to interrupt your pastime."
Major Flannel looked up and surveyed the intruder, whose approach had been completely unnoticed by the engrossed enthusiasts.
Trafford was in a dark-green uniform with a sword at his side. In one hand he bore a bugle, and in the other a ski-ing pole.
What this warlike figure was doing on the curling-rink, and why it should address him in faultless English was a mystery to the worthy Major. Then he noticed that the high snow bank behind the rink was crowned with a score of riflemen. The game was suspended, and the curlers gathered round the intruder.
"Are we in the way of the fighting?" asked "Sandy" Fraser.
"Not in the least," replied Trafford, with a smile: "but all the same it is my painful duty to interrupt your game."
"But we don't mind war risks," objected the Scot.