“Wait a bit, boy,” he said. “Don’t pay for your work until it is done.”
A short time before, weary with their long tramp, the disappointment of finding that they were quite left behind had made the future look blank and dismal. But the old cripple’s words seemed to bring the sun out again, and he hobbled along by their side through street after street, chattering volubly about his old experiences with the army and his disappointment now in seeing the sturdy warriors march off, legion after legion, leaving him behind.
“Ah,” he said, “it’s lucky to be you, able to go, and luckier still for you to have met me who can lead you to the place where the last party are camping.”
“Where’s that?” said Marcus, sharply, for the man seemed to be taking them a very devious course.
“Just outside the gate, over yonder. There, you can see the wall, and in a few minutes we shall be there.”
The old soldier’s words proved to be quite true, as, at the end of a few minutes, he led them to the little camp, all astir with the soldiery preparing to start—horsemen, chariots, baggage, horses and camp followers, all were there, with the leaders fuming and fretting about making the last preparations, and eager to make the start.
The old soldier gave his new friends a nudge of the elbow and a very knowing look.
“I know what to do,” he said. “You leave it to me. I wasn’t in a marching army for years without learning something. Yonder is a big captain, there by that standard. Nothing like going to the top at once. Come along.”
The old cripple drew himself up as well as he could, and, thumping his stick heavily down, led the way to the fierce-looking captain, whose face looked scarlet with anger and excitement.
“Here, captain,” cried the old man.