“Well, gentlemen,” said the colonel, at last, “I hope you are satisfied with our ball.”
“Satisfied!” cried the major. “Sir, I should like to court-martial the scoundrel who left that gas escaping!”
“Humph! Yes; but not a military offence,” said the colonel. “Well, doctor, you’ve been growing horribly rusty lately; this ought to make you work easily and well!”
“Not my style,” said the doctor. “Hysterical, frightened women and singed dandies not my class of work! A good respectable gunshot wound, a leg off, or a bayonet probe, if you like; but this sort of thing—bah! Why, if it had not been for our flute-player and Sir Mark Frayne, I should have been nowhere!”
“But where’s Lacey?” said one of the officers.
“Ah, where’s Adonis?” cried another.
“Poor old chap, he looked more like a chimney-sweep when he was pulled out!”
“Yes, it was a narrow squeak for him; but I have not seen him since he came to.”
“Had a bath and gone to bed,” said one of the subalterns; “and I feel as if it would do me good.”
“He was a bit scorched, one of the town doctors said.”