Lennox was silent.
“There, I’m not going to try and teach you, old fellow,” continued Dickenson; “but if I were you I should ignore everything, unless the boys do as they should do—meet you like men.”
“Well,” said Lennox, “we shall see.”
That dinner-time came all too soon for Lennox, who had sat in his shabby quarters thinking how wondrously quiet everything was, and whether after what the colonel had hinted it was the calm preceding the storm.
“Come along,” cried Dickenson, thrusting his head into the hut.
Lennox felt his heart sink as he thought of the coming meeting, for this was the first time he had approached the mess-room since the night of the attack upon the kopje. He winced, too, a little as he passed two sentries, who seemed, he thought, to look curiously at him. But the next moment his companion’s rather boisterous prattle fell upon deaf ears, for just in front, on their way to the mess-room, were Roby and the doctor walking arm in arm, and then they disappeared through the door.
“Oh, won’t I punish the provisions when the war is over!” said Dickenson. Sniff, sniff! “Ah! I know you, my friend, in spite of the roasting. I’d a deal rather be outside you than you inside me. And yet it’s all prejudice, Drew, old man, for the horse is the cleanest and most particular of vegetable-feeding beasts, and the pig is the nastiest—cannibalistic and vile.”
They passed through the door together, to find the colonel present, and the other officers about to take their places. Roby had evidently not been prepared for this, and he looked half-stunned when the doctor turned from him, advanced to Lennox, and shook hands.
“I wish we had a better dinner in honour of my two convalescents.”
“This is insufferable,” said Roby in a voice choking with anger.