The Sergeant smoked on for a few minutes, looking fiercer than ever.
“Where’s Sam Wren, sir?” he said suddenly.
“He was fretting so much last night at being kept in hospital,” I replied, “that the doctor said he might rejoin his troop.”
“Glad of that. He’s one of our best shots. But what’s gone of your blacky, Mr Moray?”
“Joeboy? I don’t know,” I said. “Isn’t he with the horses? Oh, of course he’d be looking after mine.”
“He ain’t, then,” said the Sergeant.
“What!” I cried excitedly; “then what about my horse? I’ve been lying here thinking of nothing but myself. I ought to have seen to him.”
“Couldn’t,” said the Sergeant dryly. “But he’s all right.”
“Are you sure?” I cried.
The Sergeant nodded. “I saw to him myself. I like that horse.”