“He turned with a little air of triumph to Margory. ‘I told you so, my dear,’ said he. ‘I got but a distant glimpse of him this forenoon, and thought I could not be mistaken.’ And Margory sobbed.
“‘My lad,’ he said, visibly restraining some emotion, ‘I could ask your drum-major to take the cords of Kildalton my brother’s drum and whip you out of a gallant corps. I sent you with a picket—a brave lad, as I thought any fellow should be who played Kildalton’s drum, and you came back a snivelling poltroon. Nay—nay!’ he cried, lifting up his hand and checking my attempt at an explanation. ‘You came out of that infernal lane whimpering like a child, after basely deserting your comrades of the picket, and made the mutilated condition of your drum the excuse for refusing my order to go back again, and I, like a fool, lost a limb in showing you how to do your duty.’
“‘But, General—’ I cried out.
“‘Be off with you!’ he cried. ‘Another word, and I shall have you thrashed at the triangle.’
“He fairly thrust me from the room, and the last I heard was Margory’s sobbing.
“Next day I was packed off to the regimental depot, and some weeks later played a common drum at Salamanca.”
The sculptor rubbed the clay from his hands and took off his overall.
“That will do to-day, I think,” said he. “I am much better pleased than I was yesterday,” and he looked at his work with satisfaction.
“But the story, my dear Mr Urquhart. You positively must give me its conclusion!” I demanded.
“Why in the world should that not be its conclusion?” said he, drawing a wet sheet over the bust. “Would you insist on the hackneyed happy ending?”