The horse was gravely examined: an ancient beast with gnarled hocks, no tail, and a dappling of tiny dark blue pits on his grey hide, as though he had suffered with small-pox in some long-past year. But there was spirit in his eye, and some one murmured over him the mystic word “salted.”
“He won’t die of dik-kop this journey!” was prophetically announced.
The men were “riding light”; all that was on the horses was a blanket, a mackintosh sheet, and a wallet with food enough for two or three days.
It was popularly stated that this little crowd had an excellent chance of meeting a Matabele impi, and being cut off before they had gone twenty miles. However, they came out of Swears’s, where most of them had been snatching a last hasty meal, laughing like schoolboys, and all the stay-behinds hung and clamoured after them, eyeing the horses wistfully, giving grandiloquent advice about everything, and complaining bitterly of their lot.
To every one’s amazement it was seen that the tenth man was no other than Dr Marriott. Suddenly appearing he shambled on to the grey horse, mounted awkwardly and sat there, a moody drooping figure, looking as though he belonged to some other world than that of the gay jesting crowd around him; possibly he did; probably he was lost in strange dreams of the strange lands of which De Quincey has told us.
Swift enquiries were as swiftly answered, and the whispered news flew round that, obsessed by his desire to go to the front, he had pleaded with Anthony Kinsella and not pleaded in vain. Anthony, against all advice, had consented to take him in the place of Stair. There was no lack of criticism on the mistaken weakness of Kim.
“The fellow’s a waster—”
“He will only be a drag—he’s a good-for-nothing!”
“He’s dopey now—lost in pipe dreams.”
“And he rides fourteen stone—his horse will freck by the way.”