Birds of a feather flock together naturally, and before half a mile had been covered a tall, thin, boyish-looking officer, with a star of merit in the shape of a series of strips of diachylon upon his brow, gravitated towards the rear-guard and suddenly joined their ranks, holding out and shaking hands with the new-comers.
“How are you?” he cried. “How are you? I say, don’t look at a fellow like that. I’m an awful scarecrow, I know; but I’m Drummond—Tom Drummond of ours.”
“Oh, you look right enough,” cried Bracy merrily. “Only a bit of the polish rubbed off.”
“And a bit chipped,” said Roberts, laughing.
“Eh? Oh, this!” cried their new friend. “Getting better, though, now. Doesn’t improve a fellow.”
“Doesn’t it?” cried Bracy. “I should be proud of such an order.”
“It’s very good of you to say so,” said the young subaltern, with his eyes glistening.
“How did you get it?” asked Roberts.
“Oh, in a scrimmage with those treacherous beasts. They’d got me and about a dozen of the lads in a corner among the rocks, and it was either stand still and be cut up or make a dash with the bayonet. There were about fifty of ’em.”
“So you made a dash?”