“Yes, sir; I can hear them quite plainly.”
“Never mind so long as we don’t feel them quite plainly, Murray, my lad,” continued the officer, with a faint laugh. “I don’t know how you feel, my boy, but I am suffering from a peculiar tickling sensation about the upper part of my spine. It is a sort of anticipation of the coming of a spear; and the worst of it is that we can’t run, though I’ll be bound to say you feel as if you would like to. Now, frankly, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said the lad; “I’d give anything to run now, as fast as I could.”
“That’s honest, Mr Murray,” said the lieutenant, in a low, eager whisper, and he squeezed his companion’s arm. “But then, you see, we can’t. That’s the worst of being an officer, Murray, with all his responsibilities. If we were to run we should throw our men into confusion by causing a panic. If the officer shows the white feather his men will whisk it out directly, and, what is worse, they will never believe in him again, and that would not do, would it?”
“No, sir,” said Murray quietly; “but I’ve got that tickling sensation in my back badly now.”
“Of course you have, Murray, but not so bad as I have, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said the lad, rather huskily.
“Better not talk, Mr Murray,” said the first lieutenant; “the ashes are getting into your throat.”
“Think it’s that, sir?”
“Some of it, my boy. Well, no: it does not do for officers to be too sure. We’ll say it is, though. Nasty sensation, however, that of feeling your enemies are waiting to hurl a spear through the air with such an aim that it will stick right into your back.”