“Pussy,” said Wyatt, twisting his abundant moustache.
“The cat? Flogging?”
“That’s it, and serve the beggar right. And if that does no good, we shall have to make him a present of his uniform and his liberty after a pleasant little musical ceremony, but his buttons and facings will be cut and stripped off. Don’t like it, though. Looks so bad before the native troops. I’d rather they put him out of his misery at once.”
“What! shoot him?” cried Dick, with a look of horror.
“Yes; the poor beggar’s irretrievably bad. It would be a soldier’s death. Better for him than letting him go on disgracing himself, his corps, and the position of the British army out here.”
“It’s very, very horrible,” said Dick sadly.
“So it is, dear boy; but what can we do? As I’ve told you before, he has been let off no end of times. Ah, there goes Hulton to have Master Bob haled up before him. Ta-ta.”
Dick waited anxiously for the result of the military, magisterial examination of the previous night’s incident, and in due time he encountered Wyatt again.
“Well?” he said anxiously.
Wyatt laughed.