“Oh, of course: you went with Hulton to the Forty-fifth mess last night, and wouldn’t know.”
“Know what?” said Dick impatiently. “I never did know any one so slow at telling a story. Is this one?”
“Gently, young fireworks,” said Wyatt coolly, “and I’ll tell you. Black Bob was to have been out this morning, sober and wise after his last escapade. But he must have had some spirits smuggled in through his cell window, I expect; for, instead of waiting patiently, he must let the stuff get into his head; then he watches his chance, and after knocking at his cell and getting the sentry to open, knocks him down, and makes a bolt of it.”
“Oh, the fool, the fool!” cried Dick angrily.
“Good boy,” said Wyatt: “strong, but just. That’s just what he is.”
“But has he broken barracks?”
“Not he, my dear boy. The sentry objected to being knocked down, so he sat up and fired his carbine.”
“He hasn’t shot the man?”
“Not he. I dare say he felt savage. Being knocked down hurts a fellow; but, with all his blackguardism, the boys like Black Bob because of the way in which he can fight. Lots of them know how he stands by them in a scrimmage. The sentry only fired his carbine; then the sentry at the gate fired and turned out the guard, and my lord was caught.”
“Did he go buck quietly to the cell?” asked Dick.