‘Gerraway, sir, you’re bloody made o’ money,’ challenged Shone. ‘Anyway, your word’s good. You in?’
Morgan couldn’t resist. It may have been quite against the rules, but it was more than sporting blood could bear—his rank could go hang.
‘Aye, of course I am. Three minutes, five and twenty seconds for me, is it free?’ he asked, any concerns about discipline or over-familiarity with the men quite forgotten.
‘Free as a hawk, sir, but you’ll be skinned by Derby, he’s a terror.’ One of the other men wrote Morgan’s time down on a scrap of card.
‘Right, let’s see the rats.’ Corporal Fitchett craned forward over the ring as Shone emptied the bag.
Twenty black, brown, sleek forms tumbled on to the earth floor, collected themselves in less time than it took to blink and shot for the edge of the
