Draw Swords! Part 22

There was a dead silence after these laconic remarks, broken at last by Wyatt drawing a long, deep breath and saying "Ha!"--making it sound twice as long as "Constantinople" uttered very slowly with a comma after each syllable.

Then d.i.c.k sighed, and said, "Oh dear!"

"Yes," said Wyatt, "I was an awful young scamp when I was a boy."

"Don't believe it," said d.i.c.k shortly.

Wyatt turned upon him quickly, and sat looking him full in the eyes for a few moments, a pleased expression gathering in his big, manly face.

Then he reached out his hand and shook his young friend's hand.

"Thank ye, d.i.c.k," he said, warmly. "I like that. Does a fellow good.

But I was, you know."

"I dare say you were thoughtless and got into sc.r.a.pes, played tricks, and that sort of thing; but you're such a big, honest, straightforward, manly sort of fellow, with the heart of a boy, that I can't believe you ever did anything very bad. I say, I beg your pardon, Wyatt," added d.i.c.k hastily.

"What for?"

"Speaking out so freely, and saying you were like a boy."

"I like it, I tell you. It's true enough. I'm big and old enough, but I don't feel so, d.i.c.k. Ever since you joined you seem to have been quite a companion."

"You've treated me as if I were."

"Of course I have. You see, we meet half-way. I'm a youngish sort of fellow, and you're a regular, thoughtful, old man kind of chap with plenty of brains. That's how it is, I suppose."

d.i.c.k smiled.

"No," said Wyatt thoughtfully; "setting aside bits of mischief--pranks, you know--I don't think I ever did anything very bad; but the dear old governor was down upon me once for telling him a lie. He said it hurt him more than it did me when he gave me the thrashing, but I didn't believe it then. I do now, for if Bob Hanson is flogged, I believe honestly it will hurt me more than it does him."

"Did your father ever thrash you again?" asked d.i.c.k, looking at his big friend anxiously.

"No," said Wyatt, turning away his head and beginning to whistle a march very softly and solemnly.

"What a pity! And so you told him a lie?" said d.i.c.k sadly.

"No!" thundered out Wyatt.

"Ah! you didn't?" cried d.i.c.k, leaping up to lay his hand on Wyatt's shoulder. "I am glad of that."

"Thank ye, old man," said Wyatt. "It was all a big mistake. He thought I had."

"But why didn't you tell him--why didn't you explain?"

"Stupid, proud, young fool," said Wyatt gruffly.

"What a pity!" said d.i.c.k. "But he soon knew, of course?"

"No," said Wyatt slowly, "he never knew. He came out here to India soon after in command of his regiment, and the next thing we heard--"

He stopped short, and d.i.c.k stood looking down at the back of his head, as he went on slowly whistling the march again, his companion listening in silence.

"Know that tune, d.i.c.k, old chap," he said huskily, and without looking round.

d.i.c.k nodded; he felt as if he could not speak.

"Ah, yes, of course you do," continued Wyatt, though he had not glanced round and seen the nod--it was as if he felt the sign. "It was at the storming of Ghazeebad. The dear old dad led his men through the breach, and didn't drop till the colours were planted on the top of the main works, and the boys were cheering like mad. That was the march they buried him to, d.i.c.k. The dear old dad! A braver man never stepped."

"And he never knew that it was all a mistake--that he had punished you wrongfully?"

"No," said Wyatt. "I ought to have written and told him on my word of honour that I had not told a lie. Yes, I ought to have done that, d.i.c.k, instead of feeling ill-used and proud."

He turned round as he spoke, and met d.i.c.k's eyes gazing at him wonderingly, as the lad seemed to be gaining a new reading of his big friend's character.

"There," he said, smiling sadly, "it was all a mistake;" and he added simply, "But he knows it now, d.i.c.k--the dear old dad!"

They sat together without speaking for some minutes then, and Wyatt was the first to break the silence.

"Yes," he said, "I'd give anything sooner than that poor, weak, stupid fellow should be flogged, but the big-wigs have said it, d.i.c.ky, my boy; and that isn't the worst of it."

"There is no worse," cried d.i.c.k angrily.

"Oh, yes, there is, dear boy; we shall have to go out to a grand parade and see the brutal business done."

"I won't," cried d.i.c.k fiercely.

"Yes, you will, old lad. Duty, discipline, and the rest of it."

"I'd sooner resign my commission."

"No. It's for an example to the men; it's part of the regimental rules, and we can't break them ourselves. As to throwing up your commission, I should like to catch you at it! Why, it would be playing the sneak to go and leave us in the lurch just when we're going up-country."

"Then it isn't all talk? We are going up-country?"

"I suppose so. Going to help some rajah chap whose next-door neighbour's trying to nibble away his territory, or something of that kind. Anyhow, it means fighting."

"But I can't sit there and see that man flogged, for somehow I like him, Wyatt."

"Well, it is a bad business, d.i.c.k; but duty, old fellow, duty, you know.

There, don't let's talk any more about it. Only makes one feel low-spirited."

They went out for a stroll about the barracks, which meant a look in at the horses, when Burnouse acknowledged his new master's presence with a whinny whose friendly sound was spoiled by an ugly, vicious way of laying back his ears.

"Don't do that, stupid," growled Wyatt; "I'm not going to hit you with a pitchfork. Think he's better now that Dondy Lal's gone?"

"I'm sure he is," said d.i.c.k.

"That's right. Let's go and have a look at the elephants. Wonder whether we shall have them with us. I like elephants."