There was a sound outside above the roar of the wind and the rain. At first faint and intermittent, it grew louder, and continuous, and came close. There was no mistaking it,—the march of booted men.
“What’s that?” asked my companion, with a start.
“Tommy Atkins,” I replied, “the clang of the ammunition boot as big as life.”
His face grew ashy white, and he looked furtively around the room.
“What’s the matter?” I exclaimed, but as I asked, I knew.
I opened the bath-room door and shoved him in.
“Go in there” I said, “and compose some more fairy tales.”
He was scarcely out of sight when the front door was thrown open, and a corporal’s guard, wet yet happy, marched into the room.
The corporal stood with his back to the door, and gave himself mental words of command,—“Eyes left, eyes right,”—then, as a last resource,—“eyes under the table.” He had not noticed the little bundle in the dark corner. He drew himself up and gave the military salute.
“Beg pardon, sir, but we are out for a deserter from the 58th,—Bill Hulish,—we ’ave tracked him ’ere, and with the compliments of the commanding hofficer, we’ll search the ’ouse.”