“A bit indifferent! It was deplorable. But, apart from that, the way that old actor, what’s his name, played the part of the Colonel was enough to drive a man to drink. Going about, smiling, cracking jests, and lighting cigarettes! I’ve been through a decent few shows—Dundee, Barterton, and some others that were pretty warm, too—and I can tell you, people don’t behave like that under shell-fire—they’ve too much to think about to play the mountebank. Carry on with the work and show decent pluck—yes. But behave like that old idiot—no, no!”
“You’re blasé with too much of the real thing, my dear Raeburn. Let’s have a drink and talk about something else.”
But the South African warrior was not to be denied. He had things to say, and meant to say them.
“Half the time,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “these actor-Johnnies don’t know what they’re doing. A slack, idle crowd, lolling over a bar by day and messing up their faces with grease-paint by night. They’ve no experience of life, or death, or danger, and wouldn’t know how to cope with it if they had. They’re gas-works, that’s all. Lord, it makes me sick to see a man attitudinising and throwing the heroic pose, when if it came to a pinch he’d take to his heels at the sight of a runaway horse half-a-mile away.”
“That statement,” said Eliphalet Cardomay, rising and approaching the two gentlemen, “is offensive and unjust.”
The man who had been speaking, a broad-shouldered, well-built fellow of middle age, spun round in his chair, and eyed the newcomer with disfavour.
“I’m not aware we invited you to join our conversation,” he said.
Eliphalet Cardomay acknowledged the thrust with a fencer’s gesture.
“True; but I feel justified in upholding the honour of my profession, as doubtless you would feel for any person or ideal you may happen to cherish.”
Captain Raeburn cocked his head at a somewhat insolent angle.