The colonel was furious.
"Consider the safety of the ladies," he shouted.
Scott, who stood behind Hemming, chuckled at that. "What wily, open-eyed chaps they are," he said. "I wonder if they have missed the steamer yet?"
Hemming leaned from the window. "We can look after the ladies, thank you," he sneered, "and, by the way, tell your precious English friend, who helped you write that charming letter, that if I get my hands on him, he'll suffer more than he did the other time. Hurry along now."
Hemming had recovered his monocle, and before its baleful glare the colonel was silent and confused. Just then Cuddlehead thumped into view, clinging to the neck of Hemming's own white stallion. He was in a far worse state than the colonel even, and swayed in the saddle.
"Good morning, Captain Hemming," he cried, and waved his hand.
The men in the room were startled by the expression that crossed their friend's face. The mouth hardened. The eyes narrowed. A deep flush burned in his thin cheeks. He paid no heed to the stranger's salutation.
"Pepper," he said, softly.
The stallion looked up.
"What is that pitiful object on your neck? That nasty cad?"