“Start to-morrow, don’t we, sir?”
“Impossible to say. What do they say in the camp?”
“Weather-cockery.”
“What?”
“Well, sir, it’s just like a vane in a wind: now it’s east, now it’s west, and when it ain’t east or west, it’s north or south. Everybody says everybody else is wrong. But we are going somewhere directly; that’s for certain. And, I say, Master Fred.”
“Yes?”
“How do you feel about mounting your horse again?”
“I long to, Samson. How are the poor beasts?”
“Lovely, sir. The farrier doctored the cuts and scratches they got in the skirmish, and they’re pretty well healed up now. It’s a cowardly thing to cut at a horse. Then you feel strong enough to have a try, sir?”
“You wait till we get the orders to start, Samson, and you shall see.”