The prisoner’s injury proved to be so slight, and his conduct so bad upon his being brought before his officers and those of the other regiments in barracks, that at last it was decided that a severe punishment must now follow the many breaches of discipline of which he had been guilty; and the sentence was no more than might have been expected, for in those days there was less hesitation over meting out punishment in the army than there is now.

Dick shuddered when he heard it, and Wyatt looked at him grimly.

“No use to make a face at it, my dear boy,” he said. “He deserved it, and ought to have had it a twelvemonth ago.”

“Oh, yes, I dare say; but we all deserve more than we get.”

“Speak for yourself, Dicky, boy. I feel particularly good; nothing more on my conscience than a general feeling of laziness, and a stone too much weight.”

“But to be flogged!” cried Dick.

“Well, yes, it does sound bad, and of course it hurts; but Master Hanson has been bidding for it month after month.”

“But such a degrading punishment!”

“Ye-e-es,” drawled Wyatt; “but then all punishments are degrading. They are meant to be—so it seems to me.”

“It seems so hateful!”

“Of course: and the man flogged won’t like it. Don’t suppose in the good old times men liked to be cut short with the axe and block. The moral is, don’t do things which entail punishment.”

“Do you often flog men in this troop?”

“My dear boy—no! I’ve been with it seven years, and we never did such a thing before; and we shall none of us know how to go about it. Let’s see; the drummers do it in the foot regiments. Seems a comical idea—beating a tattoo on a man’s back. Ought to do it with the drumsticks.”

“Don’t laugh at it, Wyatt,” cried Dick angrily.

“Certainly not, old fellow. But, really, we shan’t know what to do. Who’s to flog? The drummer can’t, because we haven’t got one. The trumpeter, I suppose.”

“It is horrible and disgraceful.”

“So it is, dear boy; but what are we to do? We don’t want to lose the man, and we can’t let him go on as he is going.”

“It will make him worse, Wyatt, and he’ll be nursing up a feeling of revenge.”

“Not a nice baby, that, for a man to nurse. But I hope for better things. Do him good.”

“No, no, no!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, dear boy, till the remedy has been tried. But, really, I begin to feel a good deal like my father said he did—dear old fellow!—though I never believed it before.”

“What did he feel? Tell me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing—nothing much,” said Wyatt, tugging at his big mustachios. “Your pater ever lick you?”

“Never,” said Dick emphatically. “He was too fond of me.”

“Of course. My father was too fond of me, you know, but he gave me a tremendous thrashing once.”

“Stick?”

“Riding-whip. Hurts more.”

There was a dead silence after these laconic remarks, broken at last by Wyatt drawing a long, deep breath and saying “Ha!”—making it sound twice as long as “Constantinople” uttered very slowly with a comma after each syllable.

Then Dick sighed, and said, “Oh dear!”

“Yes,” said Wyatt, “I was an awful young scamp when I was a boy.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Dick shortly.

Wyatt turned upon him quickly, and sat looking him full in the eyes for a few moments, a pleased expression gathering in his big, manly face.

Then he reached out his hand and shook his young friend’s hand.

“Thank ye, Dick,” he said, warmly. “I like that. Does a fellow good. But I was, you know.”

“I dare say you were thoughtless and got into scrapes, played tricks, and that sort of thing; but you’re such a big, honest, straightforward, manly sort of fellow, with the heart of a boy, that I can’t believe you ever did anything very bad. I say, I beg your pardon, Wyatt,” added Dick hastily.

“What for?”

“Speaking out so freely, and saying you were like a boy.”

“I like it, I tell you. It’s true enough. I’m big and old enough, but I don’t feel so, Dick. Ever since you joined you seem to have been quite a companion.”

“You’ve treated me as if I were.”

“Of course I have. You see, we meet half-way. I’m a youngish sort of fellow, and you’re a regular, thoughtful, old man kind of chap with plenty of brains. That’s how it is, I suppose.”

Dick smiled.

“No,” said Wyatt thoughtfully; “setting aside bits of mischief—pranks, you know—I don’t think I ever did anything very bad; but the dear old governor was down upon me once for telling him a lie. He said it hurt him more than it did me when he gave me the thrashing, but I didn’t believe it then. I do now, for if Bob Hanson is flogged, I believe honestly it will hurt me more than it does him.”

“Did your father ever thrash you again?” asked Dick, looking at his big friend anxiously.

“No,” said Wyatt, turning away his head and beginning to whistle a march very softly and solemnly.

“What a pity! And so you told him a lie?” said Dick sadly.

“No!” thundered out Wyatt.

“Ah! you didn’t?” cried Dick, leaping up to lay his hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “I am glad of that.”

“Thank ye, old man,” said Wyatt. “It was all a big mistake. He thought I had.”

“But why didn’t you tell him—why didn’t you explain?”

“Stupid, proud, young fool,” said Wyatt gruffly.

“What a pity!” said Dick. “But he soon knew, of course?”

“No,” said Wyatt slowly, “he never knew. He came out here to India soon after in command of his regiment, and the next thing we heard—”

He stopped short, and Dick stood looking down at the back of his head, as he went on slowly whistling the march again, his companion listening in silence.

“Know that tune, Dick, old chap,” he said huskily, and without looking round.

Dick nodded; he felt as if he could not speak.

“Ah, yes, of course you do,” continued Wyatt, though he had not glanced round and seen the nod—it was as if he felt the sign. “It was at the storming of Ghazeebad. The dear old dad led his men through the breach, and didn’t drop till the colours were planted on the top of the main works, and the boys were cheering like mad. That was the march they buried him to, Dick. The dear old dad! A braver man never stepped.”

“And he never knew that it was all a mistake—that he had punished you wrongfully?”

“No,” said Wyatt. “I ought to have written and told him on my word of honour that I had not told a lie. Yes, I ought to have done that, Dick, instead of feeling ill-used and proud.”

He turned round as he spoke, and met Dick’s eyes gazing at him wonderingly, as the lad seemed to be gaining a new reading of his big friend’s character.

“There,” he said, smiling sadly, “it was all a mistake;” and he added simply, “But he knows it now, Dick—the dear old dad!”

They sat together without speaking for some minutes then, and Wyatt was the first to break the silence.

“Yes,” he said, “I’d give anything sooner than that poor, weak, stupid fellow should be flogged, but the big-wigs have said it, Dicky, my boy; and that isn’t the worst of it.”

“There is no worse,” cried Dick angrily.

“Oh, yes, there is, dear boy; we shall have to go out to a grand parade and see the brutal business done.”

“I won’t,” cried Dick fiercely.

“Yes, you will, old lad. Duty, discipline, and the rest of it.”

“I’d sooner resign my commission.”

“No. It’s for an example to the men; it’s part of the regimental rules, and we can’t break them ourselves. As to throwing up your commission, I should like to catch you at it! Why, it would be playing the sneak to go and leave us in the lurch just when we’re going up-country.”

“Then it isn’t all talk? We are going up-country?”

“I suppose so. Going to help some rajah chap whose next-door neighbour’s trying to nibble away his territory, or something of that kind. Anyhow, it means fighting.”

“But I can’t sit there and see that man flogged, for somehow I like him, Wyatt.”

“Well, it is a bad business, Dick; but duty, old fellow, duty, you know. There, don’t let’s talk any more about it. Only makes one feel low-spirited.”

They went out for a stroll about the barracks, which meant a look in at the horses, when Burnouse acknowledged his new master’s presence with a whinny whose friendly sound was spoiled by an ugly, vicious way of laying back his ears.

“Don’t do that, stupid,” growled Wyatt; “I’m not going to hit you with a pitchfork. Think he’s better now that Dondy Lal’s gone?”

“I’m sure he is,” said Dick.

“That’s right. Let’s go and have a look at the elephants. Wonder whether we shall have them with us. I like elephants.”

They strolled over to the great stables where the huge beasts were chained by one leg to short, picket-like posts, and stood swaying their heads about and writhing their trunks.

Dick’s friend held out his proboscis directly, but the lad had nothing for him, and the great beast seemed to understand it and to be friendly all the same, passing the end of his soft trunk about the visitors’ arms, and suffering it to be held before the pair went away.

“Yes,” said Wyatt in his big, simple way, “I like elephants. Wouldn’t mind keeping one for a pet, even if he ruined me for his prog. I do wish, though, they went to a better tailor’s.”

“Went where?” cried Dick, laughing.

“Better tailor’s. Their trousers never seem to fit.”

Dick and his big friend parted soon after, Wyatt having an appointment to see Hulton about some business connected with the troop, leaving Dick with two important matters to think about—the possibility of going up-country and seeing service, and the horror of the punishment to be meted out to a man in whom he could not help taking a great deal of interest. He went over these themes for some time, connecting the former with the sword that he meant to have sent to the armourer that day.

That night, when he went to bed, a fresh train of thought commenced in connection with Wyatt, and he dwelt long upon his friend’s words, and the glimpse he had caught of what the man really was.

“I didn’t know,” thought Dick, as he dwelt long upon the sad page in the lieutenant’s history, “but I began to like him directly, and I believe he began to like me. He must, or he wouldn’t have been so friendly. It seems so strange, too, for we make a curious pair. I am right, though—big, brave man as he is, he is quite a boy at heart.”

Dick lay thinking then, his mind back upon the punishment, and the horror of being paraded out in the open space yonder to see that horrible flogging.

“Could I do anything to stop it?” he thought, and this kept him wakeful for another hour; while, when in the silence of the hot night he did drop asleep, it was to have the imaginary scene of the preparation for the punishment all before his eyes, while he looked on, saying to himself:

“Can’t I do something to stop all this?”