"You're in luck, old chap."
"Now, don't you get mawkish," said the Blackguard roughly. "The Colonel was bad enough, but I won't stand any rot from you. After all these years,—ye gods, what a wrench it is! I'm as weak as a kitten, and all my bones feel sick. Come over to the lines—I'm going to take my horse these last two weeks, whether they like it or not."
"There'll be an awful row," said Dandy anxiously.
"So much the better. Trouble and I are twins, but I'll have my horse."
"I guess I can stand the racket," said Dandy, as they walked to the lines.
Last post was sounding while La Mancha saddled, and in the midst of his work he turned on Dandy.
"Don't look at me like that! It's all your fault for making me turn respectable. It's against Nature. What would the civilians think if all of you turned into brass-mounted saints like me? Why, they would be sending their sons into the Force for convent training, and adulterate the grandest cavalry in the world. There"—he loosed his horse and flung himself into the saddle. "Cut it short," for Dandy could not let go his hand. "Say good-bye to the boys for me. Good-night—good-bye, and be hanged to you."
So he rode out of the camp at a headlong gallop; but half a mile away drew rein, for "Lights out" was sounding. He took off his hat, and brushed his sleeve across his eyes, because there seemed to be a mist between him and the tents, while through his mind there swept the music of an old-time song which belongs to the Mounted Police—
"The sentry challenged at the open gate,
Who pass'd him by, because the hour was late—
'Halt! Who goes there?'—'A friend'—'All's well.'
'A friend, old chap!'—a friend's farewell,
And I had pass'd the gate.
And then the long last notes were shed,
The echoing call's last notes were dead—
And sounded sadly as I stood without
Those last sad notes of all: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out!
Good-bye, you fellows! We have side by side
Watch'd history's lengthen'd shadows past us glide,
And worn the scarlet, laughed at pain,
And buried comrades lowly lain,
And let the long years glide;
And toil and hardship have we borne,
And followed where the flag had gone—
But all the echoes answ'ring round about
Have bidden you to sleep: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out''