Then we brought the lances down, then the bugles blew,
When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an” two,
Ridin', ridin', ridin', two an” two,
Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra,
All the way to Kandahar, ridin' two an” two.
—Barrack-Room Ballad.
“I'M NOT angry with the British public, but I wish we had a few thousand of them scattered among these rooks. They wouldn't be in such a hurry to get at their morning papers then. Can't you imagine the regulation householder—Lover of Justice, Constant Reader, Paterfamilias, and all that lot—frizzling on hot gravel?”
“With a blue veil over his head, and his clothes in strips. Has any man here a needle? I've got a piece of sugar-sack.”
“I'll lend you a packing-needle for six square inches of it then. Both my knees are worn through.”
“Why not six square acres, while you're about it? But lend me the needle, and I'll see what I can do with the selvage. I don't think there's enough to protect my royal body from the cold blast as it is. What are you doing with that everlasting sketch-book of yours, Dick?”
“Study of our Special Correspondent repairing his wardrobe,” said Dick, gravely, as the other man kicked off a pair of sorely worn riding-breeches and began to fit a square of coarse canvas over the most obvious open space. He grunted disconsolately as the vastness of the void developed itself.
“Sugar-bags, indeed! Hi! you pilot man there! lend me all the sails for that whale-boat.”
A fez-crowned head bobbed up in the stern-sheets, divided itself into exact halves with one flashing grin, and bobbed down again. The man of the tattered breeches, clad only in a Norfolk jacket and a gray flannel shirt, went on with his clumsy sewing, while Dick chuckled over the sketch.
Some twenty whale-boats were nuzzling a sand-bank which was dotted with English soldiery of half a dozen corps, bathing or washing their clothes. A heap of boat-rollers, commissariat-boxes, sugar-bags, and flour—and small-arm-ammunition-cases showed where one of the whale-boats had been compelled to unload hastily; and a regimental carpenter was swearing aloud as he tried, on a wholly insufficient allowance of white lead, to plaster up the sun-parched gaping seams of the boat herself.
“First the bloomin' rudder snaps,” said he to the world in general; “then the mast goes; an' then, s' help me, when she can't do nothin' else, she opens 'erself out like a cock-eyed Chinese lotus.”