We went up country, and enjoyed a great deal of excellent sport. We went out pig-sticking, which is the finest sport in the world; we went out tiger-shooting upon elephants; and riding upon elephants, we shot partridges—a form of sport by no means easy. I remember an irascible old colonel of artillery, who became very hot, and who missed a good many partridges, saying indignantly to the Duke:
"This is all d——d rot. I could shoot more partridges on Woolwich Common."
It was the same peppery soldier who, when one of the members of the staff had fallen ill, went with me upon a visitation to the sick. We found the invalid in a state of extreme agitation, and surrounded with books of a religious nature.
"I think—I hope—" he kept saying, "that I shall be forgiven. I think I shall—I hope so."
"What's he saying? What's he saying?" cried the colonel, who, as often happens to people in hot weather, had become rather deaf.
"He thinks he's dying," I shouted.
Whereupon the colonel, turning angrily to the invalid, shouted,
"You d——d fool, you have only over-eaten yourself!"
The sick man was so infuriated that he hurled his books of religion at the colonel, and sprang out of bed. Next day he was quite well.