“I heard Mr Dickenson saying something, sir,” replied the sergeant bluntly, “but I was looking along the gun here and did not catch a word.”
“You mean you would not hear,” cried the captain angrily.—“Look here, Mr Dickenson, don’t let it occur again.”
He jerked at the case of his field-glass and took it out again, then crossed to the other end of the roughly-made gun-platform and directed the telescope upon some object near the horizon.
The two subalterns exchanged glances.
“Mr Lennox—Mr Dickenson,” said the latter in a low tone. “Poor old chap, he’s regularly upset. Well, no wonder; wants his breakfast. I’m just as grumpy underneath for the same reason, but I keep it down—with my belt. Look here, Drew; go and prescribe for him. Tell him to buckle himself up a couple of holes tighter and he’ll feel all the better.”
“Hold your tongue! He isn’t well, and he’s put out about this mare’s-nest hunt.”
“Well, yes; we haven’t done much good.”
“Not a bit. How do you feel?”
“As if I should like to kick that time-serving corporal.”
“What! the ‘Lantern’? Yes: brute! Anything to curry favour with his master.”