“There are uniforms enough, too, to fit us all out,” said Simkin, as they were about to leave the scene of slaughter.
“No dead men’s clo’es for me,” said Moses Pyne, with a shrug of disgust.
Jack Molloy declared that he had become so used to loose cotton drawers, and an easy-fittin’ sack, that for his part he had no desire to go back to civilised costume! and as the rest were of much the same opinion, no change was made in the habiliments of the party, except that each appropriated a pair of boots, and Miles exchanged his green tippet for a flannel shirt and a pith helmet. He also took a revolver, with some difficulty, from the dead hand of a soldier, and stuck it in his belt.
Thus improved in circumstances, they gladly quitted the ghastly scene, and made for a bushy hillock a few hundred yards in advance.
On the way they were arrested by the sound of distant firing.
“Mohammed must have met our countrymen!” exclaimed Molloy, with excited looks, as they halted to listen.
“It may be so, but there are other bands about besides his,” said Miles. “What’s that? a cheer?”
“Ay, a British cheer in the far distance, replied to by yells of defiance.” Molloy echoed the cheer in spite of his better judgment.
“Let’s run an’ jine ’em!” he exclaimed.
“Come along, then!” cried Miles, with the ardour of inexperienced youth.