Part 27 (1/2)
It was W. Keyse's fellow-sentry from the opposite flank of the Convent.
”And time you turned up, I don't think,” commented W. Keyse. ”Didn't you 'ear me sing out to you just now?”
”Come, now, what were you up to?” the Sergeant pressed. ”Better up an' own it if you've bin asleep on guard.”
The eager faces crowded round. The object of interest and comment, not at all sympathetic or polite, was a stout, respectable tradesman, with a large, round, ghastly face, who saluted his officer with a trembling hand.
”I--I have been the victim of an outrage, sir!”
”Sorry to hear it; what's your name?”
”Brooker, sir,” volunteered W. Keyse's Corporal. ”The other sentry we put on with Keyse here.”
”Mr. Brooker, sir, General Stores, Market Square,” babbled the citizen.
”Well, Private Brooker, what have you to say?”
”I have been drugged or hypnotised, sir, and robbed of my gun while in a state of insensibility, sir--upon my honour as an Alderman and Magistrate of this borough! Swear me, sir, if you have any doubt of my veracity!” He flapped his hands like fins, and his bandolier heaved above a labouring bosom.
The Commander of the picket looked preternaturally grave.
”Very sorry, Private Brooker, but unless the Sergeant has brought his Testament along, you'll have to give your information in the ordinary way.
So they drugged you or hypnotised you--or both, was it?--and took away your rifle. Of course you saw it done?”
”No, sir, I did not see it done. When I woke up ...”
”Ah, when you woke up! Please go on.”
The crowding faces of B.S.A. men and Town Guardsmen were grinning now. The patrol-officer was rocking in his saddle.
”When I revived, sir, from the swoon or trance ...”
”Very good, Private Brooker; we'll hear the rest of that in the morning.
Sergeant, relieve these sentries, and bring Private Keyse and the hypnotic subject before me in the morning. Make this man Brooker a prisoner at large for the present, and fall in the picket.”
The Sergeant saluted. ”Very good, sir.”
The bubbling Brooker boiled over frothily as the sentries were changing.
”A prisoner! Good G.o.d! do they take me for a traitor? A Magistrate ... an Alderman, the President of the Gas Committee ...”
”I should 'ave guessed you to be that if I 'adn't 'eard it, sonny,” said the Sergeant dryly, the implied sarcasm provoking a subdued guffaw. He added, as the visiting patrol rode on and the picket marched back to the Cemetery: ”Can't relieve you of your rifle, because you 'aven't got 'er.
What in 'Eaven's name are they goin' to do to you? Well, you'll find out to-morrow. Left face; quick march!”
Counting left-right, and keeping elbow-touch with the next man, W. Keyse got in a whisper: