Then what about your bedding? You can carry only a blanket or
greatcoat on your horse, so that, when you are away from your convoy,
which is often enough, you have not much covering, and if it comes on to
rain you have a poor time of it. Of clothes, too, you have only what you
ride in. If wet, they dry on you; and few and far between are your
chances of washing them. All these things sound and are trifles. A man
would think little of them in a sporting expedition in the Himalayas;
but after a long time the monotony tells. The heat tells. You are
sometimes "a bit slack," and at those times the cooking of your wretched
morsel of flesh, or the struggle for a drop of pea-soup coloured water
becomes irksome.
The little star on your shoulder saves you from all that. You can tell
the new commissioned man by the way he has of constantly looking over
his shoulder. Poor fellow! he likes to catch the pretty glitter--the
"twinkle, twinkle, little star"--that lifts privates' hands to him as
they pass. Some one else cooks for him now, and there is the officers'
mess cart with a few welcome extras and a merry gathering at meals and a
batman to tend the pony (though you keep an eye on that yourself too),
and extra clothes and blankets, and a shelter of some sort to sleep
under, and a Kaffir boy to put out his washing things when he comes in
hot and tired, and altogether life seems, by comparison, a very
luxurious and pleasant affair.
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