The stranger uttered a sharp ejaculation of impatience.
“Oh, this is foolish—absurd!” he exclaimed; and his hands began to busy themselves about his waist.
Private Smithers might have been the worst man in his company, but somehow drill had made him a keen soldier and a good sentry.
“Hands up,” he cried sharply, “or I fire!”
“Oh!” cried his visitor sharply, “don’t be so foolish. Did you think I was going to do something?”
“Yes, with a revolver, whoever you are. I nearly drew trigger, and you not two yards away.”
“Oh!” said the stranger, with a gasp. “It is foolish nonsense, and you have frightened away my rowing-men. Don’t you know me?”
“No.”
“I am a stranger. I come out in the forest to-night to collect the beautiful moths—butterflies, you call them. I have some in this case.”
“It’s all dark,” said Smithers sourly. “Gammon! No one can see to catch butterflies at night.”