"What now,
Rae? Where have you been? What news have you? My God, this thing is
driving me mad! Penal servitude! Think of it, man, for my son! Oh, the
scandal of it! It will kill me and kill his sister. What's your report?
Come, out with it! Have you seen Mr. Sheratt?" He was pacing up and down
the office like a beast in a cage.
"Tut, tut, Captain Cameron," said Mr. Rae lightly, "this is no way for
a soldier to face the enemy. Sit down and we will just lay out our
campaign."
But the Captain's soldiering, which was of the lightest, had taught him
little either of the spirit or of the tactics of warfare. "Campaign!" he
exclaimed. "There's no campaign about it. It's a complete smash, horse,
foot, and artillery."
"Nonsense, Captain Cameron!" exclaimed Mr. Rae more briskly than his
wont, for the Captain irritated him. "We have still fighting to do, and
hence we must plan our campaign. But first let us get comfortable. Here
Davie," he called, opening the office door, "here, mend this fire. It's
a winter's day this," he continued to the Captain, "and goes to the
marrow."
Davie, a wizened, clean-shaven, dark-visaged little man, appeared with a
scuttle of coal. "Ay, Davie; that's it! Is that cannel?"
"Ay, Sir, it is. What else? I aye get the cannel."
"That's right, Davie.
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