"
"Won't that be time enough?" asked the general, smiling. He was
looking at Kirby very closely. "Not sick, are you?" he asked. "No? I
thought your scalp looked rather redder than usual."
Kirby flushed to the top of his collar instantly, and the general
pretended to arrange a sheaf of papers on the table.
"One reason why you're being sent first, my boy," said the general,
holding out his hand again, "is that you and your regiment are
fittest to be sent. But I've taken into consideration, too, that I
don't want you or your adjutant killed by a cobra in any event. And--
_snf--snf_--the salt sea air gets rid of the smell of musk
quicker than anything. Good-by, Kirby, my boy, and God bless you!"
"Good-by, sir!"
Kirby stammered the words, and almost ran down the steps to his
waiting dog-cart. As all good men do, when undeserved ridicule or
blame falls to their lot, he wondered what in the world he could have
done wrong.
He had no blame for anybody, only a fierce resentment of injustice--
an almost savage sense of shame that any one should know about the
adventure of the night before, and a rising sense of joy in his
soldier's heart because he had orders in his pocket to be up and
doing. So, and only so, could he forget it all.
He whipped up his horse and went down the general's drive at a pace
that made the British sentry at the gate grin from ear to ear with
whole-souled approval.
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