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"One two three four," counted the timekeeper amid the most deathly silence, and, as he added, "five six Time," a shout arose that was heard for miles. Trooper Matthewson was saved if his seconds could pull him round in time. At sound of the word "Time," the seconds leapt into the ring.
On mounting guard that evening, the Sergeant of the Guard had been informed that a corpse lay in the mortuary, a young soldier having been taken ill and having died within a few hours, of some disease of a distinctly choleraic nature. "I'll tell you orf for that post, Matthewson," said the Sergeant.
Finding himself free for the afternoon, and the proud possessor of several shillings, "Trooper Matthewson" decided to walk to Folkestone, attend an attractively advertised concert on the pier, and then indulge in an absolutely private meal in some small tea-room or confectioner's shop.
Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheery words. The distance had been measured off, and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards, a cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself loose, even Matthewson, who had lost his wager.
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