“The countersign is correct. Advance friend,” said I, from number-one post on the cushions. “Likewise, the guard, being asleep, will not turn out. Come over here, and make less riot.”
“Just been to see Ali Baba,” explained Bones, dropping upon a chair near the window. “He’ll be mended now in a week or ten days. Thought I’d run up here to glance through the papers. Sent my gig away because it’s too hot to leave the horse standing.”
I slipped off my coat and tossed it to the other end of the window-seat, preparatory to elevating my feet for my greater comfort. Bones also reduced his apparel, and provided himself with smoking materials. Then, with his first few puffs, he said, reflectively, “It’s funny how that ‘Ali Baba’ title has been handed down from captain to captain in ‘L’ company. Why, it must be more than twenty years since the day of the first ‘Ali.’”
A side glance at the surgeon confirmed the impression I had received from the peculiar intonation of his voice: his hands were clasped behind his head, his long legs were draped over the arm of his chair, his eyes were half closed, and he was on the point of being talkative.
Now I, as the latest comer upon the staff, have to serve in the capacity of waste-basket, and all the older officers feel at liberty to use me at any time when they feel the need of freeing themselves of some mildewed old yarn. So I drew a long breath, gave a grunt by way of signifying that I would suffer uncomplainingly, and settled myself to stare vacantly out through the open casement, under the wide, striped awning, and across the broad expanse of roofs towards the green hills, far beyond the city’s limits.
“Yes, it must be all of twenty years,” said the surgeon, seeing that I made no effort to escape, “for it was before I’d been enticed into the service—and I’ve been dealing out ginger and pills to this regiment for more years than I care to remember.
“Things were different in those days: the establishment wasn’t on quite the footing that it’s on now. In fact, the true military spirit was at rather a low ebb, and discipline, to put it mildly, was far from rigid. So the service—even though there were good men in it then—was rather in disrepute.
“At that time one Merrowbank was captain of ‘L.’ He was a typical old-timer, a milishy-man from the word go, and a glittering example of all that a volunteer officer shouldn’t be. It was a pet theory of his that the commissioned officer should be able to find stowage for just twice as much Santa Cruz product as the enlisted man could manage to put away—and he lived up to his theory most consistently. Moreover, he had a childlike faith that Providence would keep a watchful eye upon his company property, and he never allowed himself any worry about trifles like shortages in equipment. Well, he’s been out for a long time now—and it’s nihil nisi bonum, you know—but he had a gay old company, they say.
“When the brigade went into camp that year—whatever year it was—Merrowbank took down three officers and forty men, which was a good showing, so far as strength went, for those days. But he found himself short on rifles and great-coats and any quantity of other stuff, and his implicit faith in Providence was much shaken by the discovery; so much shaken that he felt it incumbent upon him to rustle ’round a bit in his own behalf.
“So he got his non-com.’s into his tent the first night of camp, explained the nature of the emergency, and issued a G.O., to the effect that before the next morning every man in ‘L’ who was short of equipment must manage to make up the deficiency—how, he didn’t care a coppery cent, though he’d suggest that it mightn’t be a bad idea to be neighborly with the other regiments of the brigade, just to see how well off they might be in the matter of State property.