The bubbling Brooker boiled over frothily as the sentries were changing.
"A prisoner! Good God! do they take me for a traitor? A Magistrate ... an
Alderman, the President of the Gas Committee ..."
"I should 'ave guessed you to be that if I 'adn't 'eard it, sonny," said
the Sergeant dryly, the implied sarcasm provoking a subdued guffaw. He
added, as the visiting patrol rode on and the picket marched back to the
Cemetery: "Can't relieve you of your rifle, because you 'aven't got 'er.
What in 'Eaven's name are they goin' to do to you? Well, you'll find out
to-morrow. Left face; quick march!"
Counting left-right, and keeping elbow-touch with the next man, W. Keyse
got in a whisper:
"I say, Sergeant, am I in for it as well as Ole Bulgy Weskit? You might as
well let me know and charnce it!"
The Sergeant answered with unfeeling indifference:
"Since you ask, I should say you was."
"That's a bit 'ard! Wot'll I git?"
"Ten to one, your skater."
"Wot is my skater?"
"Your Corporal's stripe, you suckin' innocent! Wot for? For takin' a Boer
spy pris'ner--that's wot for!"
"Cripps!" said W. Keyse, enlightened, illuminated and glowing in the
darkness. He added a moment later, in rather a depressed tone: "But it was
'im, the civilian bloke with the beard, 'oo downed the Dutchy, an' sat on
'im till the guard come up."
The Sergeant was ahead of the half-company, speaking to the officer in
charge. It was the Corporal who answered, across the man who marched upon
the left of W. Keyse:
"O' course it was. But you 'ad the Dopper fust, and," he cackled quietly,
"the Colonel won't be jealous."
The eyes and mouth of W. Keyse became circular.
"The who?"
"The Colonel, didn't you 'ear me say?"
"That wasn't never ... _'im_"?
"All right, since you know best. But him, for all that!"
"Great Jiminy Cripps!" gasped W. Keyse.