"Shiver my soul, then," laughs Ben, in high feather, "let the first be
that little Jack Sprat of a half-frozen Battle! He's loyal to me!"
"Good!" smiles M. Radisson. "Come over here, Jack Battle."
Jack Battle jumped over the table and stood behind M. Radisson as second
lieutenant, Ben's eyes gaping to see Jack's disguise of bushranger like
himself.
"Go on," orders M. Radisson, "choose whom you will!"
The soldiers broke into ringing cheers.
"Devil take you, Radisson," ejaculates Ben familiarly, "such cool
impudence would chill the Nick!"
"That is as it may be," retorts Radisson. "Choose! We must be off!"
Again the soldiers cheered.
"Well, there's that turncoat of a Stanhope with his fine airs. I'd
rather see him shot next than any one else!"
"Thank you, Ben," said I.
"Come over here, Ramsay," orders Radisson. "That's two. Go on! Five
more!"
The soldiers fell to laughing and Ben to pulling at his mustache.
"That money-bag of a La Chesnaye next," mutters Ben. "He's lady enough
to faint at first shot."
"There'll be no first shot. Come, La Chesnaye! Three. Go on! Go on,
Ben! Your wits work slow!"
"Allemand, the pilot! He is drunk most of the time."
"Four," counts M. Radisson. "Come over here, Allemand! You're drunk
most of the time, like Ben.
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