Chapter Twenty Five.
A Forlorn-Hope for Food.
Sergeant Briggs stared, and looked so puzzled that we laughed the more.
“Beg pardon, gentlemen,” he said, speaking as if huffed, “have I said something stoopid?”
“Tell him, Val,” cried Denham; and I explained why we laughed.
“Oh, I see,” he said good-humouredly. “I thought I was being laughed at. Well, I don’t know, Mr Denham, sir; I don’t think the idee’s quite so wild as you fancy.”
“Oh, it’s impossible, Sergeant.”
“No, sir, begging your pardon, it isn’t. It’s the cheek of the thing might carry it off. I like it.”