“They brag about the Boers’ shooting; but I don’t think much of it, nor of ours neither, if you come to that. I don’t wish any harm to them who made all this trouble; but I should like for our boys to bring down a man at every shot. It would bring some of the rest to their senses. I say, you don’t think young Mr Denham’s going home, do you?”
“No,” I said sharply. “I think he only wants getting on to a bed, to lie till the shock of his hurt has passed away.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said the trooper; “bed’s a grand thing for nearly everything. I never knew how grand it was till I came on this business and had to sleep out here on the stones. You haven’t begun to find out what it is to be away from your bed at times.”
“I’ve slept out on the veldt or up in a kopje scores of times,” I replied, “and have grown used to it.”
“Oh!” said my companion, glancing at me to see if I was telling the truth. Then, apparently satisfied, he continued: “I wish those who made this war had to do all the fighting. I’m sick of it.”
“Already?” I said.
“Yes; I was sick of it before we began to hit out. What’s the sense of it? Here am I, five-and-twenty, hale, hearty, and strong, trying to get shot. But of course one had to come. I mean to make some of them pay for it, though.”
“But you volunteered.”
“Of course. I say, though, I don’t wonder at you making a run for it. Nice game to have to fight on the enemy’s side! I should like that—oh yes, very much indeed! My rifle would have gone off by accident sometimes and hit the wrong man. I say, though, oughtn’t the Colonel to hear all this firing, and come up to help us?”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” I replied. “I should be very glad if we saw him on ahead. But we must have a couple of miles to go yet to join them—mustn’t we?”