With a black streak behind his ear, Bill turned to John to listen. He made a mental note that if he’d ever meet that Captain St Claire, he’d buy the good man a drink. This sounded like a godsent. Sure, three months in some far off corner of the empire was rough, but it wouldn’t really be dangerous, would it? Just some swinging of riffles and parading in uniform to keep the locals from getting ideas, right? He remembered John’s injury… But John had been gone for five years. What was twelve weeks compared to that? Especially if it kept him out of prison?

He didn’t know how he felt about John attacking that reporter, though. Not that he cared about the reporter getting a well-earned trashing. Bill himself had certainly fantasized about punching the little weasel in his lying weaselly face. But John had a record. He hoped that Mr. Scott was the ‘gentleman’ John thought and kept his mouth shut.

“The past is the past, John,” he said, blackening the cupboard he leaned against. “We’ve all made mistakes. But ye’re a good lad. Only I wish ye hadn’t gone and beaten that little shite. Think of what would ‘ave happened if the police got involved. Even that Captain St Claire of yours couldn’t keep ye out of prison if ‘e reports ye.”