A deep and hollow groan, apparently from beneath Bertram’s bed, almost froze that young gentleman’s blood.
Pulling on his slippers and turning on his electric torch, Hall dashed out of the hut. Bertram heard him exclaim, swear, and ask questions in Hindustani. He was joined by others, and the group moved away. . . .
“Bright lad nearly blown his hand off,” said Hall, re-entering the hut and lighting a candle-lamp. “Says he was cleaning his rifle. . . .”
“Do you clean a rifle while it is loaded, and also put one hand over the muzzle and the other on the trigger while you do it?” asked Bertram.
“I don’t, personally,” replied Captain Hall, shortly. He was loath to admit that this disgrace to the regiment had intentionally incapacitated himself from active service, though it was fairly obvious.
“I wish he’d gone somewhere else to clean his rifle,” said Bertram. “I believe the thing was pointed straight at my ear. I tell you—I felt as though a shell had burst in the hut.”
“Bullet probably came through here,” observed Hall nonchalantly as he laced his boots. (Later Bertram discovered that it had actually cut one of the four sticks that supported his mosquito curtain, and had torn the muslin thereof.)
Sleep being out of the question, Bertram decided that he might as well arise and watch the setting-forth of the little expedition.
“Going to get up and see you off the premises,” said he.
“Stout fella,” replied Hall. “I love enthusiasm—but it’ll wear off. . . . The day’ll come, and before long, when you wouldn’t get out of bed to see your father shot at dawn. . . . Not unless you were in orders to command the firing-party, of course,” he added. . .