And so he does; it is not a bit put on. He
does not seem to think about himself, but about the people and things
round him. Every morning he finds time to stop and ask after the horses
and men of our little body, and to exchange a word with one or two of
the men whom he has had occasion to notice. Not a grain of condescension
is there in him; not even a thought that he is giving them pleasure. It
is a natural impulse with him, the result of the real regard and
interest he feels in every soldier that marches under him. In action his
manner, always calm, is just as calm as at any other time. He says
little; observing the most important developments or listening to the
reports of orderlies from various parts of the field, more often than
not without any comment at all. Yet nothing escapes him.
Our action with Olivier is a rather stupid one, and I shall not attempt
to describe it. We take the first position, losing from forty to fifty
men, only to find that the enemy have retired to the second range, and
that it is too late to follow them up. Probably the only man at all
satisfied with the day's performance is old Mac.
Through a weary land we have come marching north these ten days. The
veldt is at its worst, parched and dry and dead. Our column trekking
raises a huge cloud of reddish dust that hangs still in the air, and
marks for miles back the way we have come.
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