“Lummy, ain’t I sleepy just!” yawned Tony, throwing off his blanket and sitting up to rub his eyes with his knuckles.
“I too could have done with a couple of hours more,” answered Phil peevishly. Then, springing to his feet, he shook the heavy dew from his blanket and looked towards the river, the smooth and sluggish surface of which had just caught the first rays of the rising sun.
“Who’s for a dip?” he cried briskly. “Come along, Tony, boy; we shall never wake up till we have douched ourselves with water.”
“’Tain’t a bad idea, Phil, and I’m with yer,” exclaimed his friend, shaking himself like a dog. “There ain’t no towels, as I can see, so I suppose it’s a case of dry as best you can.”
“Yes, of course. The sun will be up in another ten minutes, and will serve our purpose well. Come along; we’ve a clear half-hour before breakfast.”
Another five minutes and Phil, accompanied by many comrades, was hastily pulling off his boots and clothing close to the bank of the stream. Then someone waded in and tried the depth, and having found a deep pool the others dived in, splashing the water in every direction. The pastime caught on like fire, and very soon a hundred or more were enjoying a bathe. Officers, too, came down to the river, some to look on, and others to join the men in the water.
By eight o’clock the whole of the Allies were under arms and waiting anxiously for orders, the French on the right, while the British took care of the left flank, where danger was to be expected. In rear of all were the arabas and cavalry, besides herds of cattle and sheep. Phil and Tony had been relieved of their charge, and were in the ranks with their comrades.
“I ain’t sorry to say good-bye to that old cart, araba, or whatever they call it,” exclaimed Tony. “Yer see, we shall get a chance of seeing most of the fun if there’s a fight, whilst if we was in charge of the ammunition where should we be? Right away behind, there ain’t a doubt, kicking our heels and waiting till some chance cannon-shot come bowling along our way and chopped our heads off. Halloo! who’s that?”
This exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a smartly-dressed officer, with glittering epaulettes and waving plume, cantering down before the British lines.
“It’s Marshal St Arnaud, him as commands the Froggies,” shouted someone. The news spread through the ranks, and at once, lifting their rifles, the troops greeted the Marshal with three hearty British cheers, a compliment which evidently caused him much gratification.