" He had heard words that, coupled with
others that fell through the darkness on his keenly listening ears some
two hours earlier, had given him cause for painful thought. "Lie down
here, Kennedy. Pull off your boots," said he, "and if you open your fool
head to any living soul until I give you leave, py Gott--I'll gill you!"
It was Schreiber's way, like Marryatt's famous Boatswain, to begin his
admonitions in exact English, and then, as wrath overcame him, to lapse
into dialect.
It was but a few minutes after seven when Major Webb, having previously
despatched a messenger to the post trader's to say he had need to see
Mr. Hay as soon as possible, mounted his horse and, followed by Sergeant
Schreiber and an orderly, rode quietly past the guard-house, touching
his hat to the shouted "Turn out the guard--commanding officer" of the
sentry on Number One. Mr. Hay was dressing hurriedly, said the servant,
so Webb bade Schreiber and the orderly ride slowly down to the flats and
await him at the forks of the road. It was but five minutes before Hay
appeared, pulling on his coat as he shot from the door, but even before
he came the major had been carefully, cautiously scanning the blinds of
the second story, even while feigning deep interest in the doings of a
little squad of garrison prisoners--the inevitable inmates of the
guard-house in the days before we had our safeguard in shape of the
soldier's club--the post exchange--and now again in the days that follow
its ill-judged extinction.
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