An assurance that the rest were unanimously willing to listen brought the Irishman to his feet, banjo in hand; a lank, clean-shaven individual, who secreted a well-spring of humour beneath the tragi-comic solemnity of the born-low comedian. He was greeted with cries of "Fire away, old Flannel Jacket!" "Phil the Fluter's Ball!" "An' give ut in shtyle!" He gave it in style accordingly, and in a brogue as broad as his own shoulders; the whole room spontaneously taking up the chorus.
"Wid the toot of the flute, an' the twiddle of the fiddle,
Dancin' in the middle, like a herring on a griddle!
Up an' down, hands come round, cross into the wall—
Faith, hadn't we the gaietee . . ."
But at this point the door opened to admit Max Richardson. He was still in uniform; and there was that in his face which checked their hilarity, and made O'Flanagan instantly put down his banjo.
Honor went quickly towards him, holding out her hand.
"What is it?" she asked in a low tone.
"It's young Hodson. He died . . . half an hour ago."
"Not cholera?"
Dick nodded.
An inarticulate murmur went round the room; and for several seconds no one spoke. The first white man down seemed to bring the enemy within striking distance of each one of them.
Then Lenox came forward. "You'll excuse us, Mrs Desmond?" he said quietly. And the two men went out, leaving a strangely silent room behind them.