“Yes, sir,” said the cherub, saluting; and the colonel nodded kindly and passed on.
The July sun beat fiercely down on the grey walls, and the sentry’s tunic was of a glaring bull’s red. Not a breath moved the trees below, and the click of his heels sounded monotonously.
Within the shadow of the South Bar, where the steps wound down to the street, a frock-coated, square-built man of forty, with clipped whiskers and crafty eyes, watched the sentry approach. For the second time he cleared his throat and said “Tom!”
This time the sentry turned. “I ain’t allowed to talk on duty,” he said.
The man within the shadow waited.
He waited for half an hour, and then the clatter of the relief was heard ascending the turret. Presently Private Hey passed him without looking at him. He descended after him, and in the street spoke again.
“I ain’t off duty yet; you can come to the Buttercup,” said Private Hey.
The bar of the Buttercup was below the level of the street, and a gas-jet burned all day over its zinc-covered counter. In the back parlour behind it Hullah awaited Private Hey.
The cherub’s voice was heard shouting an order, and he entered the snug. The uncoated barman followed him with the liquor, and retired.