“I have. The Colonel said he could not spare you.”
“Ha! That’s better, old fellow. I was beginning to feel horribly set aside.”
“I was to have one of the men for my companion. Can you suggest a better?”
“No,” said Roberts, and he hurried out to seek the lad, who was standing in line with his fellows of the company, looking gloomy and discontented, for the sally-party to follow the Colonel, who was to lead them himself, did not include “Roberts’s lot,” as they were termed.
“Fall out, Private Gedge,” said Roberts sharply.
“Didn’t hear what I said, did he?” muttered the lad, with an anxious look, for he had been growling at what he called the favouritism served out to some of the companies in choosing them to go out and have the first chance of being shot; and this, he told himself, was mutinous.
But he pulled himself together and stood as erect as a ramrod, waiting for the next order, which came directly:
“Right face; march!”
And he marched after his Captain, with heart beating heavily, and then sinking deeper and deeper, as he found himself led to the officers’ quarters.
“It’s court-martial for a threep’ny-bit,” he muttered. “Next thing ’ll be ‘Disarm!’ and all because I wanted to go and fight. Oh! they are jolly ’ard on us chaps in the ranks.”