Part 13 (2/2)
”It would seem so, sir.”
”The fellow with the gray chin beard was Irish, wasn't he?”
”He might be, sir.”
”A Swede, an Irishman, and an Indian,” I said musingly. ”That makes a nice combination for the Queen's Rangers. Come now, Peter, give me the straight of all this.”
He stopped with his fork in a bit of meat, favoring me with another stare.
”I think I fail to comprehend, sir.”
”No, you don't, you rascal,” a bit of anger in my voice. ”Did you bring this supper yourself, or were you sent here?”
”Under orders, sir.”
”The lieutenant?”
He bowed solemnly, and asked:
”Would you object if I smoked, sir?”
”Certainly not; only answer my questions. Good heavens, man! do you think I am a log of wood? Act like a human being. Who is the lieutenant?”
”A Dragoon, sir.”
”Peter,” I broke out, irritated beyond patience, ”I have some reason to believe you a liar. But I am going to get the truth from you if I have to choke it out.”
”Yes, sir; very good, indeed, sir. However, there would seem to be no need of your resorting to such extreme measures, sir.”
”Then you will tell me what I wish to know?”
”It will afford me pleasure, sir.”
Somehow I could not rid myself of the suspicion that the fellow was secretly laughing at me, yet his round face was innocent and placid, his eyes discreetly lowered.
”Then kindly inform me, first of all, who this young lieutenant is.”
”I fear, sir,” solemnly, ”that I may have misinformed you when I said he was a Dragoon.”
”Yes!” eagerly.
”I would correct my statement somewhat--he is a Light Dragoon, sir.”
In spite of my effort at self-control, I swore, tempted to batter that stolid face, yet realizing the utter uselessness of such violence.
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