“Good evening, mates,” said the linesman, gazing curiously and anxiously round him as he deposited a bundle on the table, and laid his swagger cane beside it.
“What’s your height?” inquired Joe abruptly. “Seven foot?”
“No, only six foot four,” said the new arrival, modestly. “I’m not proud of it. It’s much easier for a small man to slip off than a big one.”
“It licks me,” said Joe thoughtfully, “what they want ’em back for—I should think they’d be glad to git rid o’ such”—he paused a moment while politeness struggled with feeling, and added, “skunks.”
“P’raps I’ve a reason for being a skunk, p’raps I haven’t,” retorted Private Smith, as his face fell.
“This’ll be your bunk,” interposed Dan hastily; “put your things in there, and when you are in yourself you’ll be as comfortable as a oyster in its shell.”
The visitor complied, and, first extracting from the bundle some tins of meat and a bottle of whiskey, which he placed upon the table, nervously requested the honour of the present company to supper. With the exception of Joe, who churlishly climbed back into his bunk, the men complied, all agreeing that boys of Billy’s age should be reared on strong teetotal principles.
Supper over, Private Smith and his protectors retired to their couches, where the former lay in much anxiety until two in the morning, when they got under way.
“It’s all right, my lad,” said Dan, after the watch had been set, as he came and stood by the deserter’s bunk; “I’ve saved you—I’ve saved you for twenty-five shillings.”
“I wish it was more,” said Private Smith politely.