"I am ashamed to hear an old soldier speak so, even in jest," said I
sternly.

"Jest, indeed!" He cried, with a great, roaring oath. "I'd have done it
years ago if the Rooshians had been game to take it up. Skobeloff
was the best of the bunch, but he's been snuffed out. However, that's
neither here nor there. What I want to ask you is whether you've ever
heard anything in this quarter of a man called Heatherstone, the same
who used to be colonel of the 41st Bengalis? They told me at Wigtown
that he lived somewhere down this way."

"He lives in that large house over yonder," said I, pointing to Cloomber
Tower. "You'll find the avenue gate a little way down the road, but the
general isn't over fond of visitors."

The last part of my speech was lost upon Corporal Rufus Smith; for the
instant that I pointed out the gate he set off hopping down the road.

His mode of progression was the most singular I have ever seen, for He
would only put his right foot to the ground once in every half-dozen
strides, while he worked so hard and attained such a momentum with the
other limb that he got over the ground at an astonishing speed.

I was so surprised that I stood in the roadway gazing after this hulking
figure until the thought suddenly struck me that some serious result
might come from a meeting between a man of such blunt speech and the
choleric, hot-headed general. I therefore followed him as he hopped
along like some great, clumsy bird, and overtook him at the avenue gate,
where he stood grasping the ironwork and peering through at the dark
carriage-drive beyond.

"He's a sly old jackal," he said, looking round at me and nodding his
head in the direction of the Hall. "He's a deep old dog. And that's his
bungalow, is it, among the trees?"

"That is his house," I answered; "but I should advise you to keep a more
civil tongue in your head if you intend to speak with the general. He is
not a man to stand any nonsense."

"Right you are. He was always a hard nut to crack. But isn't this him
coming down the avenue?"

I looked through the gate and saw that it was indeed the general, who,
having either seen us or been attracted by our voices, was hurrying down
towards us. As he advanced he would stop from time to time and peer at
us through the dark shadow thrown by the trees, as if he were irresolute
whether to come on or no.

"He's reconnoitering!" whispered my companion with a hoarse chuckle.
"He's afraid--and I know