He looked at his watch; it was almost half-past eleven.
“Haystoun said they’d be here at midnight,” he whispered to his companion. “We haven’t long. When do you suppose Andover will come?”
“Not for an hour and a half at the earliest. Afraid this is going to be our own private show. Where’s Haystoun?”
George nodded back to the fire in the hollow, and the tent beside it. “There, I expect, sleeping. He’s dog-tired, and he always was a very cool hand in a row. He’ll be wakened soon enough, poor chap.”
“You’re sure he can’t tell us anything?”
“Nothing. He told me all. Better let him be.” Mitchinson came up with the rearguard. Living all but alone in the wilds had made him a silent man compared to whom the taciturn St. John was garrulous. He nodded to George and sat down.
“How many are we?” George asked.
“Forty-three, counting the three of us. Not enough for a good stand. Wonder how it’ll turn out. Never had to do such a thing before.”
St. John, whose soul longed for Maxims, posted his men as best he could. There was no time to throw up earthworks, but a rough cairn of stone which stood in the middle of the hollow gave at least a central rallying-ground. Then they waited, watching the fleecy night vapours blow across the peaks and straining their ears for the first sound of men.
George grew impatient. “It can’t be more than five miles to the pass. Shouldn’t some of us try to get there? It would make all the difference.”