Part 18 (1/2)

”Yes,” said Wyatt dryly, ”it will be a change; so make the most of your comfortable quarters while you can. Next week you may be sleeping on a heap of stones after a supper of nothing to eat and a pannikin of dirty water.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HANSON PLAYS THE FOOL.

But the weeks rolled by without change, save that d.i.c.k felt himself quite at home in the troop, and was able to hold his own with the rest.

He had more than once asked Wyatt if there was any fresh news, invariably to receive a shake of the head and the reply:

”One never knows.”

Sergeant Stubbs had reported his pupil as having pa.s.sed well through the riding-school routine; and this was the princ.i.p.al thing he had to master, for he had come out from college a trained soldier, and his year in a company of foot artillery had prepared him well for his new appointment.

”I shall be glad when we get away from this constant drilling,” said d.i.c.k one morning, with a yawn. ”I don't think I want to fight, but I should like for us to be going to some of the big cities, so that one could see the rajahs with their grand show and jewellery. I've been out here in India all this time, and seen so little. I say, Wyatt, that was all nonsense about our being ordered up-country.”

”Perhaps so; one never knows. You'll see enough some day if you wait patiently,” continued Wyatt; ”and after you've seen a rajah sitting like a figure of Buddha, dressed up in muslins and cloth of gold, and flas.h.i.+ng with diamonds, in his howdah, you'll think what a stupid old woman he looks, and be ready to bless your stars that you weren't born a rajah or nawab or gaikwar out here, but an English gentleman, which, after all, is the finest t.i.tle under the sun.”

”Oh, I don't know,” said d.i.c.k slowly; ”there's something very attractive in show.”

”Can't be very comfortable to be going about dressed like a woman.”

”I shouldn't dislike one of their jewelled swords.”

”Tchah! Our service-blade is worth a hundred of them. Why, there's no grip to them; and as to the jewels, they must be always getting knocked out of the settings. All very well to have under a gla.s.s case. I say, did you hear about your friend the Black Diamond?”

”Bob Hanson? Yes,” said d.i.c.k gloomily. ”I was in hopes that he was turning over a new leaf.”

”Not he.”

”It's having leave to go out in the native quarters and getting that abominable arrack. That dose of cells ought to set him right again.

Let's see; he was out again this morning, wasn't he?”

”Oh, yes,” said Wyatt derisively; ”he was out again last night. Haven't you heard?”

”Heard? Heard what?”

”Oh, of course: you went with Hulton to the Forty-fifth mess last night, and wouldn't know.”

”Know what?” said d.i.c.k impatiently. ”I never did know any one so slow at telling a story. Is this one?”

”Gently, young fireworks,” said Wyatt coolly, ”and I'll tell you. Black Bob was to have been out this morning, sober and wise after his last escapade. But he must have had some spirits smuggled in through his cell window, I expect; for, instead of waiting patiently, he must let the stuff get into his head; then he watches his chance, and after knocking at his cell and getting the sentry to open, knocks him down, and makes a bolt of it.”

”Oh, the fool, the fool!” cried d.i.c.k angrily.

”Good boy,” said Wyatt: ”strong, but just. That's just what he is.”

”But has he broken barracks?”