"Here you will win gold," they whispered to Calembours.
"We promise you death!" they sighed to Thoms.
So the three men followed the beckoning hand, and entered the contest.
Some weeks passed. It was their last evening in New York. On the morrow they would be en route for the army.
Captain Brand and the Chevalier de Calembours had staid at the same hotel, and were, of course, tolerably confidential with each other.
Thoms divided his attentions, with marked impartiality, between his master and his master's friend, and lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself with the cynical captain.
This evening Captain Brand was writing letters; the chevalier was serenely smoking on the balcony. Thoms silently plodded through the packing of their traveling-bags in a corner.
"One, two—there are three letters," said the captain, throwing down his pen. "Thoms, you dog, post these."
A scornful smile was on his lip. He picked up a photograph from his desk and pored over it eagerly. The cold, superior smile melted from his scornful mouth; the keen raillery vanished from his eyes; he regarded the pictured face almost in despair.
Thoms, creeping behind his chair to reach for the letters, took a keen survey of the card he held.