“How d’you manage when he’s asleep?” said Crandall, chuckling. “Shove a cold cleek down his neck.” “It was a wet sponge when I was junior in the dormitory... Hullo! What’s happening?” The darkness had filled with whispers, the sound of trailing rugs, bare feet on bare boards, protests, giggles, and threats such as: “Be quiet, you ass!... _Squattez-vous_ on the floor, then!... I swear you aren’t going to sit on _my_ bed!... Mind the tooth-glass,” etc. “Sta--Corkran said,” the prefect began, his tone showing his sense of Stalky’s insolence, “that perhaps you’d tell us about that business with Duncan’s body.” “Yes--yes--yes,” ran the keen whispers. “Tell us” “There’s nothing to tell. What on earth are you chaps hoppin’ about in the cold for?” “Never mind us,” said the voices. “Tell about Fat-Sow.” So Crandall turned on his pillow and spoke to the generation he could not see. “Well, about three months ago he was commanding a treasure-guard--a cart full of rupees to pay troops with--five thousand rupees in silver. He was comin’ to a place called Fort Pearson, near Kalabagh.” “I was born there,” squeaked a small fag. “It was called after my uncle.” “Shut up--you and your uncle! Never mind him, Crandall.” “Well, ne’er mind. The Afridis found out that this treasure was on the move, and they ambushed the whole show a couple of miles before he got to the fort, and cut up the escort. Duncan was wounded, and the escort hooked it. There weren’t more than twenty Sepoys all told, and there were any amount of Afridis. As things turned out, I was in charge at Fort Pearson. Fact was, I’d heard the firing and was just going to see about it, when Duncan’s men came up. So we all turned back together. They told me something about an officer, but I couldn’t get the hang of things till I saw a chap under the wheels of the cart out in the open, propped up on one arm, blazing away with a revolver. You see, the escort had abandoned the cart, and the Afridis--they’re an awfully suspicious gang--thought the retreat was a trap--sort of draw, you know--and the cart was the bait. So they had left poor old Duncan alone. ’Minute they spotted how few we were, it was a race across the flat who should reach old Duncan first. We ran, and they ran, and we won, and after a little hackin’ about they pulled off. I never knew it was one of us till I was right on top of him. There are heaps of Duncans in the service, and of course the name didn’t remind me. He wasn’t changed at all hardly. He’d been shot through the lungs, poor old man, and he was pretty thirsty. I gave him a drink and sat down beside him, and--funny thing, too--he said, ‘Hullo, Toffee!’ and I said, ‘Hullo, Fat-Sow! hope you aren’t hurt,’ or something of the kind. But he died in a minute or two--never lifted his head off my knees... I say, you chaps out there will get your death of cold. Better go to bed.” “All right. In a minute. But your cuts--your cuts. How did you get wounded?”