“Call me anything—but don’t call me early,” was the reply, as he realised who and where he was, and closed his eyes again.
“You’re an ornament to the Mess. You add to the gaiety of nations. You ought to be on the halls,” shouted the tormentor. “You’re a refined Society Entertainer. . . .”
“Eh?” grunted Murie.
“Come for a walk in the garden I said,” shouted Augustus. “Oh, you give me trypanosomiasis to look at you,” he added.
“You go to Hell,” replied Murie, and snored as he finished speaking.
Bertram felt a little indignant.
“Wouldn’t it be kinder to let him sleep?” he said.
“No, it wouldn’t,” was the reply. “He’ll sleep there for an hour, and then go over to his hut and be awake all night because he’s had no dinner.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Bertram—and asked the Major where he was to sleep that night.
“On your right side, with your mouth shut,” was the reply; to which Augustus added: