“How can a man have patience,” cried Hilton, “seized in this ruffianly way!”
“’Twas rough certainly,” said Chumbley, slowly.
“Torn from his quarters—”
“To better ones, my dear old man. Let’s play fair. One doesn’t get such a breakfast as this at the fort.”
“Dragged from his love!” cried Hilton, who did not seem to heed his companion’s remarks.
“Well, that last’s all sentiment, old man,” drawled Chumbley. “For my part I think it will do you good. I say—happy thought, Hilton—Helen Perowne’s at the bottom of this, and wanting to get rid of you, has had you carried away. Me too, for fear I should make the running in your absence.”
“Do you wish to quarrel, Chumbley?” cried Hilton.
“Not I. You couldn’t quarrel with me. But joking apart, old man, I saw enough yesterday to know that you had got to the end of your tether, and that—”
“And that what?” cried Hilton, fiercely; for Chumbley had halted in his speech.
“That she had pitched you over, same as she had a score of others before you.”