The man sighed and wisely said nothing, but thought to himself: “These English sahibs are so fierce, even when very young. He has been killing people all day—he may kill me.”
But Dick was not in a killing humour; his thoughts were upon a different track—the very reverse.
“Have I hurt you?” he said more gently.
“The sahib’s servant’s ribs are a little sore where he was kicked, but they will get better.”
“I forgot you always slept across my door. Here, show me where Sergeant Stubbs sleeps.”
The man led the way with alacrity to the non-commissioned officers’ quarters, for Stubbs had kept to his old place at night, and his gruff voice responded at once to the smart rap at his door:
“All right; rouse up the trumpeter.”
“No, no, Stubbs; it is I. Don’t make a noise.”
“You, Mr Darrell, sir! In a moment,” replied the sergeant; and the next moment he presented himself, drawing on his overalls. “What is it—a night attack?”
“No, no. I just remembered as I was going to sleep. What about that train to the bag of powder?”