“You have, my dear major, like the bravest of men.”
“No, no. Tut, tut! Like a soldier should, sir. But now about this plan of yours.”
“Yes, major, yes.”
“Well, sir, there must be about eighty or ninety of these tawny rascals, and we are all more or less damaged, and, counting our young friend Mark, eleven men and three hospital nurses. Now the nurses can’t fight, and Mark must still be powder-monkey, so there we are ten men, and, as I said, all damaged, to fight eighty.”
“Yes,” said the captain, “the odds are very great; but I think we might do it.”
“Humph!” said the major. “I don’t. No, my dear Strong; it would be a failure. I should like it immensely. I’ve been in several fights, and I was never in one yet which stood at eight to one. Yes, I should like it immensely; but there are the women.”
“Yes,” said the captain sadly; “there are the women.”
“You don’t think me turning tail because I speak so plainly?” said the major.
“No;—how could I, major!”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. The world is far more ready to think a man a coward than a hero. But set aside that, it would not do, my dear fellow. We are Englishmen and Irishmen, and can do a great deal; but when it comes to eight to one there isn’t room for one to move.”