George and a horde of yelling amateur assistants had loaded up the mules, and the narrow-gauge armoured train, plated with three-eighths inch boiler-plate till it looked like one long coffin, stood ready to start.
Two bogie trucks running before the locomotive were completely covered in with plating, except that the leading one was pierced in front for the muzzle of a machine-gun, and the second at either side for lateral fire.
The trucks together made one long iron-vaulted chamber in which a score of artillerymen were rioting.
“Whitechapel—last train! Ah, I see yer kissin’ in the first class there!” somebody shouted, just as Dick was clambering into the forward truck.
“Lordy! ’Ere’s a real live passenger for the Kew, Tanai, Acton, and Ealin’ train. Echo, sir. Speshul edition! Star, sir.”—“Shall I get you a foot-warmer?” said another.
“Thanks. I’ll pay my footing,” said Dick, and relations of the most amiable were established ere silence came with the arrival of the subaltern, and the train jolted out over the rough track.
“This is an immense improvement on shooting the unimpressionable Fuzzy in the open,” said Dick, from his place in the corner.
“Oh, but he’s still unimpressed. There he goes!” said the subaltern, as a bullet struck the outside of the truck. “We always have at least one demonstration against the night-train. Generally they attack the rear-truck, where my junior commands. He gets all the fun of the fair.”
“Not to-night though! Listen!” said Dick. A flight of heavy-handed bullets was succeeded by yelling and shouts. The children of the desert valued their nightly amusement, and the train was an excellent mark.
“Is it worth giving them half a hopper full?” the subaltern asked of the engine, which was driven by a Lieutenant of Sappers.