“Yes, of course; he’d be snarling because they were what he’d call worn-out, useless cripples, only fit for Chelsea Hospital. The Doctor was right: it’s his liver.”
“Yes,” said Bracy; “and when we are in camp to-night and at dinner he’ll be in the highest of glee, and do nothing but brag about how he made the enemy run.”
“Well, yes; a bit of work always does him good. It isn’t brag, though, for I believe the Major to be a splendid officer, and if we have much to do he’ll begin showing us greenhorns what a soldier ought to be. But, I say, don’t talk about dinner. I didn’t think of it before; now I feel famished. My word! I shall punish it to-night.”
“If we get safely into camp,” cried Bracy excitedly. “Down with you, my lads, and look out. It came from across the valley there, from among those trees.”
Even as he spoke, pat, pat, pat came as many bullets, to strike against the bare face of the rock over their heads and fall among the stones at their feet, while the reports of the pieces fired were multiplied by the echoes till they died away.
“Nothing to mind,” said Roberts coolly. “They’re trying to pick us off! We can laugh at any attack if they try to cross the depths below there.”
“Nothing to mind so long as we are not hit,” replied Bracy; “but I object to being made a mark for their practice. What have you got there, Jones?”
“One of their bullets, sir,” said the man, who had picked up a messenger which had come whizzing across the valley.
“Bullet—eh? Look here, Roberts,” and Bracy handed his brother officer a ragged piece of iron which looked as if it had been cut off the end of a red-hot iron rod.
“Humph! Nice tackle to fire at us. Lead must be scarce. Now, that’s the sort of thing that would make a wound that wouldn’t heal, and delight old Morton.”