“We heern yur shot, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, “an’ we guessed yur didn’t shoot without somethin’ ter shoot for; so I tuk half a dozen files and kim up.”
“You acted right, sergeant; but where are the—”
I was looking towards the edge of the tank where I had last seen the girls. They had disappeared.
“If yez mane the faymales,” answered Chane, “they’re vamosed through the threes. Be Saint Patrick, the black one’s a thrump anyhow! She looks for all the world like them bewtiful crayoles of Dimmerary.”
Saying this, he turned suddenly round, and commenced driving his bayonet furiously into the dead cayman, exclaiming between the thrusts:
“Och, ye divil! bad luck to yer ugly carcase! You’re a nate-looking baste to interfere with a pair of illigant craythers! Be the crass! he’s all shill, boys. Och, mother o’ Moses! I can’t find a saft spot in him!”
We climbed out upon the parapet, and the soldiers commenced wiping their wet guns.
Clayley appeared at this moment, filing round the pond at the head of the detachment. As I explained the adventure to the lieutenant, he laughed heartily.
“By Jove! it will never do for a despatch,” said he; “one killed on the side of the enemy, and on ours not a wound. There is one, however, who may be reported ‘badly scared’.”
“Who?” I asked.