“Oh, they’re giving him another trial.”
“They’re not going to flog?”
“No. Double allowance of cells, and the doctor is to take him in hand. The poor beggar must be a bit off his head, I suppose. Diachylon says, though, he’s as right as any man in the troop.”
“Who’s he?” asked Dick wonderingly.
“Old Sticking-plaster—the doctor. So Bob’s got off again. Bread and water. Not savoury fare. The water’s so bad.”
An hour later Dick encountered the sergeant striding along, making the wind whistle with his big silver-mounted riding-whip, while his spurs jingled loudly.
He halted and saluted as Dick drew near.
“Heard about Black Bob, I suppose, sir?” he said.
“Yes, Stubbs; it’s a bad business.”
“Bad isn’t the word for it, sir. Wish to goodness he’d desert.”