He stopped short, and Dick stood looking down at the back of his head, as he went on slowly whistling the march again, his companion listening in silence.
“Know that tune, Dick, old chap,” he said huskily, and without looking round.
Dick nodded; he felt as if he could not speak.
“Ah, yes, of course you do,” continued Wyatt, though he had not glanced round and seen the nod—it was as if he felt the sign. “It was at the storming of Ghazeebad. The dear old dad led his men through the breach, and didn’t drop till the colours were planted on the top of the main works, and the boys were cheering like mad. That was the march they buried him to, Dick. The dear old dad! A braver man never stepped.”
“And he never knew that it was all a mistake—that he had punished you wrongfully?”
“No,” said Wyatt. “I ought to have written and told him on my word of honour that I had not told a lie. Yes, I ought to have done that, Dick, instead of feeling ill-used and proud.”
He turned round as he spoke, and met Dick’s eyes gazing at him wonderingly, as the lad seemed to be gaining a new reading of his big friend’s character.
“There,” he said, smiling sadly, “it was all a mistake;” and he added simply, “But he knows it now, Dick—the dear old dad!”
They sat together without speaking for some minutes then, and Wyatt was the first to break the silence.
“Yes,” he said, “I’d give anything sooner than that poor, weak, stupid fellow should be flogged, but the big-wigs have said it, Dicky, my boy; and that isn’t the worst of it.”