“Yes, please. Got to pack first. Daren't trust anybody else.”
“Very well. We'll dine in my tent at six-thirty,” said Courtenay. “So long!”
“So long, sir,” said King, and each went about his own business, King with the Rangar, and Ismail and all thirty prisoners at his heels, and Courtenay alone, but that much more determined.
“I'll find out,” the major muttered, “how she got up the Pass without my knowing it. Somebody's tail shall be twisted for this!”
But he did not find out until King told him, and that was many days later, when a terrible cloud no longer threatened India from the North.
Chapter VI
Oh, a broken blade,
And an empty bag,
And a sodden kit,
And a foundered nag,
And a whimpering wind
Are more or less
Ground for a gentleman's distress.
Yet the blade will cut,
(He should swing with a will!)
And the emptiest bag
He may readiest fill;
And the nag will trot
If the man has a mind,
So the kit he may dry
In the whimpering wind.
Shades of a gallant past--confess!
How many fights were won with less?
“I think I envy you!” said Courtenay.
They were seated in Courtenay's tent, face to face across the low table, with guttering lights between and Ismail outside the tent handing plates and things to Courtenay's servant inside.