"Come, come, I'll bet you a pony apiece that Kennedy comes off with flying colours," said Monkton. "Some more butter, Askerne—where's the pepper-box?—Quentin is a devilish sharp fellow, and always keeps his weather eye open, as the sailors say."
"What is the distance between this and Herreruela?" asked Askerne, who had hitherto remained silent.
"About thirty British miles, as a crow flies."
"And he is to proceed on foot?"
"But he can do so at leisure—there is no word of breaking up our cantonments here yet."
"But in this country miles seem to vary very much, Mr. Buckle," said Quentin; "when am I supposed to be back?"
"Back?" repeated Buckle, rather puzzled.
"Excuse my asking," said the lad, modestly; "but I am so ignorant of the country, and so forth."
"True, Kennedy. Well, supposing that you see this Baltasar de Saldos—fine melodramatic name, isn't it?—he is doubtless a fellow in a steeple-crowned hat and seven-league boots, all stuck over pistols and daggers—supposing you sec him at once, there is nothing to prevent you being back in six days, at latest."
"So we are about to make a night of it, the first jolly one we have had since landing at the mouth of the Maciera, and, damme, here is poor Quentin going to leave us!" said Monkton, who in his shirt sleeves was devilling a huge dish of kidneys over a brasero, for the orthodox fuel of which (charcoal) he had substituted the shutter of a window, torn down and broken to pieces. "One glass more of Oporto for the gravy, another dash of pepper, and the banquet is complete. You must have supper with us to-night, ere you go, Quentin."