“You should have hung him or shot him before he carried out this game,” said Chumbley, rubbing away very softly, and evidently feeling a good deal of satisfaction as his reward.
“It is to get me out of the way while he resumes his attentions to—you know,” he cried, peevishly; “but he might have saved himself the trouble, for I’ve done.”
“He seems to have had an idea of going it wholesale,” drawled Chumbley, “or else he wouldn’t have brought me.”
“What shall we do now?” said Hilton, altering his position, for the numbing sensation was passing off.
“As soon as ever I’ve done rubbing my legs,” said Chumbley, “I’m going to have another cigar; and then if they don’t bring us breakfast I shall have a nap, for I feel as if it would do Mr Chumbley good.”
“Chumbley, I haven’t patience with you!” cried Hilton.
“Not when you have pins and needles in your legs, dear boy; but have a weed to soothe you, and then you can philosophise over our trouble. Say, old chap.”
“What?”
“No parade this morning—no drill. No anything to do at all but lie here and smoke. Hah! this is a nice one. Look out, old man. Catch!”
To Hilton’s annoyance his friend coolly took a cigar from his case, struck a light, and having ignited the end of his roll of tobacco-leaf, he pitched case and match-box to his friend, then lay back and smoked.