“Can you h—l!” came the surly response.
Thereupon, many viscounts would have swept on into Piccadilly without further parley—not so Medenham. He scrutinized the soldierly figure, the half-averted face.
“You must be hard hit, Simmonds, before you would answer me in that fashion,” said he quietly.
Simmonds positively jumped when he heard his name. He wheeled round, raised his cap, and broke into stuttering excuse.
“I beg your lordship’s pardon—I hadn’t the least notion——”
These two had not met since they discussed Boer trenches and British generals during a momentary halt on the Tugela slope of Spion Kop. Medenham remembered the fact, and forgave a good deal on account of it.
“I have seen you look far less worried under a plunging fire from a pom-pom,” he said cheerily. “Now, what is it? Wires out of order?”
“No, my lord. That wouldn’t bother me very long. It’s a regular smash this time—transmission shaft snapped.”
“Why?”