“No fear o’ you cantering off, Master Nat,” said Samson, as, with keen appreciation of his masterful position, he tied his brother as tightly as he could, while Nat resisted and struggled so that he had to be held by Samson’s companion, his steel headpiece falling off in the encounter. “That’s got him, I think,” said Samson, tightening the last knot which held him to the horse. “Dropped your cap, have you? All right, you shall have it. There!”
A burst of laughter followed Samson’s act of politeness, for he had stuck on the steel jockey-like cap with its peak towards the back, and the curve, which was meant to protect the back of the head, well down over his eyes.
“Only wait,” grumbled Nat; “I’ll save all this up for you.”
“Thank ye, Nat. I say, you haven’t got a feather in your cap. Anybody got a feather? No. I’ve a good mind to cut off his horse’s tail for a plume; the root of the tail would just stick upon that spike. Hallo, what’s the matter there?”
Nat turned sharply from his brother to where Scarlett was hotly protesting.
“It is a mistake,” he said, angrily, to the two men who had approached him on either side with stake and cord. “I am an officer and a gentleman, and refuse to be bound.”
“It’s the captain’s orders, sir,” said one of the men, surlily.
“Then go and tell him that you have mistaken his orders,” cried Scarlett, ignoring the fact that Fred was seated within half a dozen yards.
The men turned to their officer, who pressed his horse’s sides and closed up.
“What is the matter?” he said. “Of what do you complain, Master Markham?”