Just then a bugle rang out, and the men doubled back for the lines, where, thanks to the clever native cooks, a hastily prepared meal was ready and made short work of, the keen mountain air and the long march having given the men a ravenous appetite.
Chapter Two.
The Colonel.
“Well, Colonel,” said Dr Morton as the officers sat enjoying their lunch, breathing in the crisp mountain air and feasting their eyes at the same time upon the grand mountain scenery, “I must confess to being a bit lazy. You may be all athirst for glory, but after our ride this morning pale ale’s good enough for me. I’m not a fighting man, and I hope when we get to the station we shall find that the what you may call ’em—Dwats—have dissolved into thin air like the cloud yonder fading away on that snow-peak. If, however, it does come to a set-to, here I am, my dear boys, at your service, and I’ll do the best I can.”
“Thank ye, Doctor,” came in chorus from the officers; “but the less the better.”
“We shall have something to do, for certain,” said the Colonel, a keen-looking, deeply bronzed man of fifty, “for these hill-tribes will never believe in England’s strength till they have been well thrashed; but a fight does not mean for certain that we shall want the doctor’s help afterwards.”
“So much the better,” said that gentleman, laughing. “But, as I said, here I am if you want me, and I’ve got as well-arranged an ambulance as—”
“Oh, I say, Doctor, don’t talk shop,” cried the young officer spoken of as Captain Roberts, a handsome, carefully dressed young fellow of seven or eight and twenty. “They’re regular curs, are they not, sir—these Dwats?” he added, turning to the Colonel.