“Love and poverty and war, they are all experiences necessary to make a complete life. Pass over those cartridges. This is a very mild baptism that you are undergoing, for behind these camels you are as safe as if you were sitting in the back room of the Authors’ Club.”
“As safe, but hardly as comfortable,” said Scott. “A long glass of hock and seltzer would be exceedingly acceptable. But oh, Mortimer, what a chance! Think of the general’s feelings when he hears that the first action of the war has been fought by the Press column. Think of Reuter, who has been stewing at the front for a week! Think of the evening pennies just too late for the fun. By George, that slug brushed a mosquito off me!”
“And one of the donkeys is hit.”
“This is sinful. It will end in our having to carry our own kits to Khartoum.”
“Never mind, my boy, it all goes to make copy. I can see the headlines—‘Raid on Communications’: ‘Murder of British Engineer’: ‘Press Column Attacked.’ Won’t it be ripping?”
“I wonder what the next line will be,” said Anerley.
“‘Our Special Wounded’!” cried Scott, rolling over on to his back. “No harm done,” he added, gathering himself up again; “only a chip off my knee. This is getting sultry. I confess that the idea of that back room at the Authors’ Club begins to grow upon me.”
“I have some diachylon.”
“Afterwards will do. We’re having a ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush. I wish he would rush.”
“They’re coming nearer.”