'On the War Office principle that an old girl makes a young widow? No, Wilton, my boy,' said Mostyn as he lit a cigarette, 'I leave these little lollies for such as you. Her rupees were all moonshine, and her poudre de riz was a little too plain; but I shouldn't like to have a wife who pays her milliner's bills out of her winnings at Ascot.'
'Ah, Lindsay,' said an officer of another corps who had just marched his little detachment on board, and gave Roland, familiarly, a slap on the shoulder, 'how are you—going out again to the land of the Pyramids? Just keep your eye on my fellows for a minute, will you, while I get some tiffin below—hungry as a hawk—tore through London to reach the Anglesea Barracks to-day; had only time to get a glass of sherry and a caviare sandwich at the Rag, then to get goggles and gloves, etc., in Regent Street—ta-ta—will be on deck in a minute.'
The old familiar rattling society was delightful again, even with its rather exaggerated gaiety and banter, and all about him were so heedless, so happy, and full of the highest spirits, that it was impossible not to feel the contagion.
The bustle, though orderly, was incredible, and the shipment of stores of all kinds seemed endless, including ammunition, carts and waggons, draught and battery horses, with thousands upon thousands of rounds of Martini-Henry ball-cartridges, and innumerable rounds of filled shells for thirteen and sixteen-pounder guns.
As senior officer of the mixed command going out, Roland certainly found that he had work cut out for him just then, and no time for farther regretting or thinking of the past, amid all the details consequent on embarkation for foreign service.
The medical examinations were over elsewhere; but there were 'returns,' endless, as useless apparently, to be made up and signed in duplicate; inspection of equipments; extra kits at sea to be seen to, and dinner provided for the embarking soldiers, the arms racked and two men per company told off to look after them, extra dogs on the upper deck to be pursued, caught, and sent ashore despite the remonstrances of owners, with the excess of baggage; chests piled upon chests were being sent down below, with bedding, valises, uniform cases, bullock trunks, and tubs; the knapsacks to be stowed away over the mess-tables, sentries posted on the baggage-room and elsewhere.
Amid all this a buzz of conversation was in progress at the break of the poop among soldiers and their friends, some of whom had contrived to get on board, and to one of these in which there was something absurd he could not help listening.
'Sorr, is Tim Riley aboord?' asked a young Irish labourer, looking anxiously and with a somewhat scared look about him.
'Who the devil is Tim Riley?' asked a petty officer in charge of the gangway.
The Irishman slunk back and addressed a somewhat insouciant-looking English recruiting sergeant, with ribbons fluttering from his cap, and whose business then could only be to get a few stray 'grogs' before the bell sounded for 'shore.'