“Look out; he wants you,” said Langrish.
“Me?” said I, flabbergasted.
“Don’t you see him beckoning? Look alive, or you’ll catch it.”
I could hardly believe it; and yet everybody near looked round at me in apparent wonder at my delay.
Perhaps Redwood had heard something about me from Tempest and wanted to—
“Go on,” said Trimble, giving me a shove. “If he wants to stick you in the Fifteen, tell him it’s not good enough.”
“Look sharp,” called the others, encouragingly, as I started to obey the summons.
By this time Redwood was strolling our way. Mahomet, thought I, is coming to the mountain. So, to save him trouble, I trotted up to meet him.
At first he didn’t notice me. Then when I said, “Did you want me?” he stared me over from head to foot as a Newfoundland dog would inspect a pug. It was on the whole a benevolent stare, not unmingled with humour; especially when the cheers of my late comrades called his attention to my ingenuous blushes.
“I didn’t,” said he; “but you’ll do, if you don’t mind. Cut home to my house. Number 3, Bridge Street, and ask them to send my leather belt. Look alive, there’s a good chap.”