"We haven't long. When do you suppose Andover will come?"
"Not for an hour and a half at the earliest. Afraid this is going to be
our own private show. Where's Haystoun?"
George nodded back to the fire in the hollow, and the tent beside it.
"There, I expect, sleeping. He's dog-tired, and he always was a very
cool hand in a row. He'll be wakened soon enough, poor chap."
"You're sure he can't tell us anything?"
"Nothing. He told me all. Better let him be." Mitchinson came up with
the rearguard. Living all but alone in the wilds had made him a silent
man compared to whom the taciturn St. John was garrulous. He nodded to
George and sat down.
"How many are we?" George asked.
"Forty-three, counting the three of us. Not enough for a good stand.
Wonder how it'll turn out. Never had to do such a thing before."
St. John, whose soul longed for Maxims, posted his men as best he
could. There was no time to throw up earthworks, but a rough cairn of
stone which stood in the middle of the hollow gave at least a central
rallying-ground. Then they waited, watching the fleecy night vapours
blow across the peaks and straining their ears for the first sound of
men.
George grew impatient. "It can't be more than five miles to the pass.
Shouldn't some of us try to get there? It would make all the
difference."
St. John declined sharply.
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