“Hello, Cameron, old boy! Wake up.”
Cameron rolled over with a groan and opened his eyes, still dull and heavy with sleep.
“Here you are. Pipe this down your tunnel and look lively, too. You have got thirty minutes—twenty-five, really—to reveille, and you have your toilet to perform—shave, massage, manicure and all the rest—so go to it. Here's your tub. You can't get into it, but soap yourself over, and Hobbs will sluice you with a pail or two outside.”
“Why all this Spartan stuff? It's awfully cold. I think I'll content myself with a nose rub this morning.”
“Get out of bed, and be quick about it,” commanded Barry, “unless you'd rather take your tub where you are.”
So saying he jerked the clothes clear off the cot, threatening Cameron with the tub. Cameron sprang up, stripped, soaped himself over, groaning and shivering the while; then stood outside in the open, while Hobbs administered the order of the bath, and after a vigorous rub, came in glowing.
“By jingo! That's bully! It's a pity a fellow can't always feel just how bully it is before he takes it.”
“Na-a-w then! a little snap!” ordered Barry, in attempted imitation of the inimitable Sergeant Major Hackett. “A little speed, ple-ease! That's better. I've seen worse—not often!”
And so he rattled on through Cameron's dressing and shaving operations.
“Now then, 'Obbs, a little Delmonico 'ere. Shove this bacon against your fice, Cameron.”