Then, one November night, Weldon came into his tent with alert step and glowing eyes. He found Carew going through his camp outfit in detail, and, squatting on the floor in the corner, Kruger Bobs was cleaning accoutrements as if his life depended on it.
"You look as if events were about to happen," he observed, from the dispassionate distance of the doorway.
"They are."
"Ask them to include me, then."
"What do you need of events, you regimental broncho-buster?"
"One gets sick of even the best horseflesh in time," he answered nonchalantly.
"Sorry, for you are doomed to more of it."
"Another herd of bronchos?" Weldon's voice showed that the idea displeased him.
"No; but a two-hundred-mile trek across country."
"Good. I am tired of being cooped up, and a spin of that kind will be a boon."