The last to leave his desk was a manly-looking young fellow who appeared to be twenty, but who possessed documentary evidence that he was only eighteen. He neither stretched nor yawned, but drew himself up with a sigh of relief, and, after carefully locking up the letters he had written, he turned to the typist.
“Going out, Ingleborough?” he said.
“Yes; I shan’t be long. I must go on to the compound. Back in—”
“Five minutes?” dashed in his questioner.
“No; that I shan’t,” said the young man smartly; “but I will not exceed fifteen. Get out my rifle and belts, West.”
“All right,” was the reply, and as the door closed the young clerk crossed to a plain deal cupboard in the corner of the office, threw open the broad door, and revealed an arms-rack with some twenty of the newest-pattern rifles standing ready for use, and bayonets and bandoliers to match each breech-loading piece.
A peculiarly innocent baby-like look came over his companion’s face as he opened his desk and took out a little flat oblong mahogany case and said softly:
“Going to play at soldiers again? Only to think of Oliver West, Esquire, learning to shoulder arms and right-about face when a drill-sergeant barks at him.”
“Look here, Anson,” cried the young fellow warmly; “is that meant for a sneer?”
“Me sneer?” protested the plump-looking cherubic clerk. “Oh dear, no! I never indulge in sneers, and I never quarrel, and I never fight.”