"Don't say so, Jack," urged Denzil, so earnestly that both Waller and Polwhele laughed immoderately.
"You will be like the little boy who wept for the moon," said the former, curling and caressing his long fair whiskers complacently.
"And be assured, she has a soul far above Ensigns," added his other tormentor, for unluckily for his own peace of mind, Denzil had fallen a tender victim to the flirting Rose; "yet, I must admit, that the girl—the second Trecarrel I mean—is charming; almost handsome."
"Nay, more than handsome!" added Waller emphatically, "and I must sympathize with Denzil, as I rather affect la belle Mab myself."
"But the old General has little more than his pay, or he would never have brought the girls so far up country else; at least, the good-natured Cantonment folks who indulge in gup say so," remarked Polwhele, using the native word for "gossip." "And now I must go, for Burgoyne and I mean to study the geography of yonder confounded hills which we have to scour to-morrow; and we move off from the Cantonments in the dark—an hour before daybreak."
"One glass more ere you go, Jack."
"Thanks," replied Polwhele, and then he added with mock gravity; "two of the golden rules of my simple domestic economy are, a cheroot and glass of stiff brandy-pawnee before switching the mosquito curtains and turning in; and a cup of cold tea, with a wet towel about my temples before morning parade; or at least, such used to be my custom, before we came to this Arctic and Afghan, rather than Orient region."
"And considering late hours immoral, you always come into quarters early in the morning."
"A third golden rule—precisely so, old fellow," replied the other as he assumed his sword and forage-cap. He was about to go, when Waller's servant, a soldier in livery, appeared to announce that a native wished "to speak with the Sahibs Waller and Polwhele on particular business."
"Now, what can the nigger want?" asked Polwhele; "a Parsee money-lender perhaps—have you been flying kites, Bob?"