“We’re going up the river; plenty of sport up there among the marshes.”
“Going to walk?” said Barkins.
“Oh no; we’re to have a crew and one of the cutters.”
“Don’t you believe him, Barkins, it’s all gammon. The little humbug can’t deceive me.”
“All right, call it gammon,” I said, stooping to tighten my boot-laces. “Roast duck for dinner, Tanner, to-morrow.”
Barkins rushed on deck, leaving me with Smith, and the next minute he was back again.
“It’s all right, Smithy,” he cried; “and they’re shoving in a basket of prog for the beggars.”
“What!” yelled Smith. “Do you mean to say that Brooke and this—this—thing are going off wasting Her Majesty’s time shooting?”
“Yes; I saw Brooke, and he said it was so.”
“Then I shall resign. Hang me if I’ll stop in a service where such beastly favouritism is shown. Profession for gentlemen’s sons, is it? I call it a mockery!”