“What about?”
“The Doppies’ ammunition-wagons, sir.”
“Ah!” cried Denham, rising to his elbow. “I ventured to say, sir, that the young officer as brought in our supply of provisions would have laid himself flat down on the top o’ the wall and watched with his glass till he had made out where the best spot was, and then after dark he’d have gone out and made a try to capture one of the ammunition-wagons, and brought it in.”
“Impossible, Sergeant,” said Denham.
“Bah! That word isn’t in a soldier’s dictionary, sir. You’d have done it if you’d been well enough.”
“But the cartridges mightn’t fit our rifles, Sergeant.”
“Mightn’t, sir; but they might. Then, if the first lot didn’t, you’d have gone again and again till you had got the right sort. If none of ’em was the right sort, why, you’d ha’ said, ‘There’s more ways of killing a cat than hanging it,’ and gone on another plan.”
“What other plan?” I said sharply. “There is no other plan.”
“Isn’t there?” said the Sergeant, grinning. “They’ve got one wagon that I can swear to, having made it out through the glass Mr Denham lent me, full of spare rifles of the men put out of action.”
“Of course, of course,” cried Denham. “Oh dear! oh dear!” he groaned, falling back again with a pitiful look in his eyes. “I’m lying here, completely done for. Why can’t that doctor put us right?”