Story 1—Chapter VIII.
Chunder didn’t like the looks of Harry, I suppose, so he walked off, turning once to spit and curse, like that turncoat chap, Shimei, that you read of in the Bible; and we two walked off together towards our quarters.
“I ain’t going to stand any of his nonsense,” says Harry.
“It’s bad making enemies now, Harry,” I said gruffly. And just then up comes Measles, who had been relieved, for his spell was up now; and another party were on, else he would have had to be in the guard-room.
“There never was such an unlucky beggar as me,” says Measles. “If a chance does turn up for earning a bit promotion, it’s always some one else gets it. Come on, lads, and let’s see what Mother Bantem’s got in the pot.”
“You’ll perhaps have a chance before long of earning your bit of promotion without going out,” I says.
“Ike Smith’s turned prophet and croaker in ornary,” says Harry, laughing. “I believe he expects we’re going to have a new siege of Seringapatam here, only back’ards way on.”
“Only wish some of ’em would come this way,” says Measles grimly; and he made a sort of offer, and a hit out at some imaginary enemy.