“Yes, but only six of us got through, and all damaged. One big fellow was nourishing a sharp tulwar, and he was in the act of cutting down one of my fellows, and I went at him to try and save the poor lad, but I was too late. The great brute cut him down and rushed at me.”
“Well?” said Bracy, for the thin, boyish-looking officer stopped, and looked red.
“Oh, I gave point, and got well home. I put all my strength into it, and it brought me so close that instead of having my head split by his blade I had the hilt on my forehead here. It struck in a nasty place, but being, as my old Latin coach said, awfully thick-skulled, the pommel of the tulwar didn’t break through. I say, though—never mind that—have either of you fellows a spare pair of boots? I can swap a lot of loot with you—fancy swords and guns and a chief’s helmet—for them. Look; I’ve come down to this.”
He laughed and held up one leg, the lower part of which was bound in puttees, while the foot was covered with a bandaged raw-hide sandal.
“Not smart on parade,” said Bracy, laughing, “but good to keep off corns.”
“Yes,” said the subaltern; “but I’m blest if they keep out chilblains. Oh, crumpets, how my feet do itch of a night by the fire.”
“Well, I should say my boots are about your size. Roberts’s wouldn’t lit. He has such big, ugly feet.”
“Come, I like that, Bracy. Hang it all! my trotters look liliputian beside his.”
“Now,” said Bracy mockingly; “but wait till you can see Drummond’s feet. Look here,” he added, turning to the subaltern; “you have a pair of Roberts’s too; they’ll do for goloshes.”
“I don’t care how old they are, so long as they are boots.”