The Sergeant frowned then smiled and jotted something down on his pad.

"Go and see Monsieur Cheval. If he is not well enough to go with you
-- well, have you anyone else in view?"

"Yes, sir. My partner, who has gone with me on several raids. He's
all right --"

"If you were disabled or killed, could he bring this machine back?"

"Yes, sir. He is as good as I am. Cool as a cucumber, but he -- he's
rather modest. In fact, if I don't get Cheval, I must have him, with
your permission of course."

"Or without it, eh?" Anson again smiled, this time genially. "Well,
well! Do what I have said. If you have to do without Cheval, bring
that youngster who is so modest to me. I will judge." And the
Sergeant turned off, resuming his penciling and further wandering as if
Blaine were not there.

Half an hour later Lafe stood by the cot where a shallow-faced,
trim-mustached man lay groaning discontentedly. At sight of the young
American he raised up to a sitting position, disclosing his right arm
and wrist still in splints and bandages. Moreover the pains of moving
himself made him groan and ejaculate after the mercurial manner or the
Frenchman unused to lying still and eager always to be up and doing.

"Ah, it ees mon comrade Blaine! Ver welcome -- mooch so! Wish mooch
you speak ze language, ze French."