“Say twelve hours—once in each twelve hours,” protested the doctor. “I couldn’t promise more.”
“Would you stick out for the twenty-four?” said Chumbley, very seriously. “I hate being bored.”
“Oh, I think I’d meet him,” said Hilton, laughing. “Poor fellow, he can’t help it.”
“Well, I’ll give in,” said Chumbley; “only mind this, you are to take your best cigar-box, doctor—not those confounded manillas, but the havanas—and you are to pay a fine of a cigar every time you break out.”
“Agreed,” said the doctor, holding out his hand, and the expedition was settled, the doctor going off with the Resident, leaving the two young officers together.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Eight.
A Find—Not Gold.
“I say, Hilton, old fellow, I liked that,” drawled Chumbley.