“When are you going?”
“The despatch says as soon as possible.”
“But what troop are you to join?”
“The Sixth.”
“The Sixth! I know; at Vallumbagh. Why, that’s the crack battery, where the fellows polish the guns and never go any slower than a racing gallop. I say, you are in luck. Well, I am glad!”
The next minute every one present was ready to declare the same thing, and for the rest of that day the young officer to whom the good stroke of fortune had come hardly knew whether he stood upon his head or heels.
The next morning he was summoned to the general’s quarters, the quiet, grave-looking officer telling him that, as an encouragement for his steady application to master his profession, he had been selected to fill a vacancy; that the general hoped his progress in the horse brigade would be as marked as it had been hitherto; and advising him to see at once about his fresh uniform and accoutrements, which could follow him afterwards, for he was to be prepared to accompany the general on his march to Vallumbagh, which would be commenced the very next day.
Dick was not profuse in thanks or promises, but listened quietly, and, when expected to speak, he merely said that he would do his best.
“That is all that is expected of you, Mr Darrell,” said the general, giving him a friendly nod. “Then, as you have many preparations to make, and I have also, I will not detain you.”
Dick saluted, and was leaving, when a sharp “Stop!” arrested him.