“Unless he really does wish that we had left them behind.”
“So——so we didn’t leave them behind?”
“Hand your horse over to one of the chaps,” he says; “you shall see for yourself.”
We go on foot towards the wagon on which the bales of hay were being re-packed. The job is all finished now; the tarpaulin has been pulled tightly over the top and roped down. The Quartermaster is standing in rear of the wagon as though he were on guard. He’s an old soldier who has fought through many wars; he wears the African ribbon and several Indian decorations. He’s a big, comfortable sort of man, with an immense stomach and a body over six foot high. He has a wart on the right side of his nose, which he rubs thoughtfully when he talks to you. His voice is thick, as though his throat were grown up with fat. Of all our noncommissioned officers he’s the kindest. He plays the part of a father to the chaps, and has saved many a young soldier from going on the wrong slant. His name is Dan Turpin—“Big Dan.” The only beast of sufficient strength to carry him is an ex-Toronto fire-engine horse, called “Little Dan”—not that he is little, but to distinguish him from his master. As we approach, Big Dan is singing to himself in a sepulchral voice,
Old soldiers never die
They simply fade away.
It would take more than a drive against the Huns to get Dan’s wind up.
“Quarter!”
“Yes sir.”
We hear his heels click together and the jingle of his spurs.