“Well,” said the Commandant, “do that then, and let the men fully understand that it is a most dangerous task. Mind, too, that he must be a good and a rather reckless rider, able to bear fatigue, and above all determined to do this thing for the honour of his country and the saving of his brother men.—Yes, my lad, what is it?”
For West, whose face had flushed deeply and whose blood tingled in his veins, had taken four steps forward out of the ranks, and now stood with his hand raised to the salute.
“Give me the despatch, sir,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
“You?” cried the Commandant wonderingly, as his eyes ran over the speaker. “You are very young. But are you a good rider?”
“I think I can ride anything well enough, sir.”
“Splendid rider,” said a deep voice, and Ingleborough strode to the young man’s side. “He’ll do it, sir, if any man can; and I’ll go with him to help him in the task if you’ll give me orders.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the Commandant. “Yes, I know you, Mr Ingleborough. You belong to the police?”
“Oh no, sir; I am only on friendly terms with the superintendent, and have been on expeditions with him.”
“And you think your young friend would be a good man to carry the despatch?”
“I would trust him if I were in power, sir.”