"Say nothing more," Ray found time to whisper. "You'll understand it all
in twenty minutes."
And at nine o'clock the little party was on its way through the sharp
and wintry night, the general and Captain Blake, side by side, ahead,
the aide-de-camp and Mr. Field close following. Dr. Waller, who had been
sent for, met them near the office. The sentries at the guard-house
were being changed as the five tramped by along the snapping and
protesting board walk, and a sturdy little chap, in fur cap and
gauntlets, and huge buffalo overcoat, caught sight of them and, facing
outward, slapped his carbine down to the carry--the night signal of
soldier recognition of superior rank as practised at the time.
"Tables are turned with a vengeance," said the general, with his quiet
smile. "That's little Kennedy, isn't it? I seem to see him everywhere
when we're campaigning. Moreau was going to eat his heart out next time
they met, I believe."
"So he said," grinned Blake, "before Winsor's bullet fetched him. Pity
it hadn't killed instead of crippling him."
"He's a bad lot," sighed the general. "Wing won't fly away from Kennedy,
I fancy."
"Not if there's a shot left in his belt," said Blake.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315