“Yes, a kind of one, when we were fixtures; nothing very luxurious, I need scarcely say, and little or no mess kit. It was a sight, once seen never forgotten, to witness our fellows going to dinner; various figures in greatcoats and comforters solemnly approaching, and each bearing in his hand his own drinking-cup, and plate, and knife and fork. We lived in Spartan simplicity, I can assure you.”
“And how did you like it?” inquired Miss Ferrars.
“To be frank with you, not much,” returned her host candidly. “The cold was simply awful—bad enough for us who come from a coldish climate, but for our poor camp-followers and syces, natives of the broiling plains, it was, in many cases, death. I could not say how many camel-drivers and grass-cutters have been found frozen in their sleep.”
“But they had warm clothes,” said Mrs. Mayhew, with the air of asserting an unanswerable fact.
“Yes; such as they were. A kind of blanket suit made to fit the million. And then you saw tall men in clothes barely below their miserable knees, and little men shambling along, one huge wrinkle. These garments were better than nothing, that’s all.”
“And did you feel the cold yourself?” asked Mark, with sympathetic interest.
“Sometimes; but I am a hardy fellow, and could stand it better than lots of others. Duck-shooting of a winter’s day, at home, broke me in pretty well, you know.”
“And was your appetite equally well broken in?” asked Geoffrey, with raised eyebrows.
“I’m afraid not,” returned Reginald, with a laugh. “Many a time I have gone to bed hungry.”
“But you could always buy?” said Geoffrey, combatively.