“I was standing just behind ’im, waiting any orders he might give,” said Mr. Burton.
“Were you?” said Mr. Stiles, sharply—“were you? I don’t remember it, Burton.”
“Why,” said Mr. Burton, with a faint laugh, “I was just behind you, sir. If you remember, sir, I said to you that it was pretty hot work.”
Mr. Stiles affected to consider. “No, Burton,” he said, bluffly—“no; so far as my memory goes I was the only man there.”
“A bit of a shell knocked my cap off, sir,” persisted Mr. Burton, making laudable efforts to keep his temper.
“That’ll do, my man,” said the other, sharply; “not another word. You forget yourself.”
He turned to the widow and began to chat about “his people” again to divert her attention from Mr. Burton, who seemed likely to cause unpleasantness by either bursting a blood-vessel or falling into a fit.
“My people have heard of Burton,” he said, with a slight glance to see how that injured gentleman was progressing. “He has often shared my dangers. We have been in many tight places together. Do you remember those two nights when we were hidden in the chimney at the palace of the Sultan of Zanzibar, Burton?”
“I should think I do,” said Mr. Burton, recovering somewhat.
“Stuck so tight we could hardly breathe,” continued the other.