This you get in return for all you give up--in return for the
sweet-smelling soap and the footman who calls you in the morning. Oh,
that pale-faced footman! It is dawn when, relieved on look-out, I
clamber down the rocks to our bivouac. A few small fires burn, and my
pal points to a tin coffee cup and baked biscuit by one of them. It is
the hour at home for the pale-faced footman. I see him now, entering the
room noiselessly with cautious tread as if it were a sick-room, softly
drawing a curtain to let a little light into the darkened apartment, and
approaching with a cup of tea that the poor invalid has barely to reach
out his hand to. Round our little camp I look, noting trifles with a
keen enjoyment. Shall I ever submit to that varlet again? No, never! I
will leap from my bed and wrestle with him on the floor. I will anoint
him with my shaving soap and duck him in the bath he meant for me. Do
you know the emancipated feeling yourself? Do you know the sensation
when your glance is like a sword-thrust and your health like a devil's;
when just to touch things with your fingers gives a thrill, and to look
at and see common objects, sticks and trees, is like drinking wine?
Don't you? Oh, be called by twenty footmen and be hanged to you!
This Christmas patrol of ours was of use in touching the southernmost
and westernmost limits of the Boer position.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70