We’ll talk further about this interesting case when good fortune brings us together again. In the meantime, my dear Doncourt,
Yours faithfully,
Frank Egerton.
EPILOGUE
In a bare and spotless company-room in headquarters in Regina eight uneasy troopers in fatigue uniform were waiting. Down one side of the room a row of tall windows looked out on the brown parade-ground, and beyond the buildings on the other side they could see a long Transcontinental train slowly gathering way up the westward grade.
“Hey, boys!” cried one. “How’d you like to be aboard her with your shoulder-straps and spurs?”
They cast unfriendly glances at the speaker and snorted.
“Don’t try to be an ass, Carter,” said one. “It doesn’t require the effort.”
They evinced their nervousness in characteristic ways. Several were polishing bits of brass already dazzling; one sat voraciously chewing gum and staring into vacancy; one paced up and down like a caged animal; another tried to pick a quarrel with his mates, and the eighth, Sergeant Stonor—the hero of Swan River they called him when they wished to annoy him—sat in a corner writing a letter.
To the eight entered a hardened sergeant-major, purpled-jowled and soldierly. All eight pairs of eyes sprang to his face in a kind of agony of suspense. He twirled his moustache and a wicked, dancing light appeared in his little blue eyes.
“You’re a nice set of duffers!” he rasped. “Blockheads all eight of you. Why they ever sent you down beats me. I’ve seen some rum lots, but never your equal. Flunked, every man of you!”