“The chief’s in an awful rage, Val,” said Denham, when he came to me after a thorough search had seemed to prove that the prisoner had eluded the vigilance of the sentries. “He swears that some one must have been acting in collusion with the pompous blackguard, and that he means to have the whole of our Irish boys before him and cross-examine the lot.”
“I hope he will not,” I said.
“So do I; for I don’t believe one of them would have lent him a hand, and it would offend them all.”
“Yes,” I said; “they’re all as hot-headed and peppery as can be.”
“Spoiling for a fight,” put in Denham.
“Yes; and so full of that queer feeling which makes them think a set is made against them because they are Irish.”
“Exactly,” cried my companion; “and it’s such a mistake on their part, because we always like them for their high spirits and love of a bit of fun.”
“They’re the wittiest and cleverest fellows in the corps.”
“And if I wanted a dozen chaps to back me up in some dangerous business, I’d sooner depend on them for standing to me to the last than any one I know.”
“Oh! it would be a pity,” I said warmly. “I hope the Colonel will think better of it.”