“Do you tell me that, now? And how many yards of aide-de-camp is the General to entertain if we all stretch out this way? It’s not an increase of length, I tell you, but a decrease of girth—a shocking decrease!”
“My poor fellow! You look starved, indeed!”
“Starved, is it? That’s just what I am. How would you help it with a chief that drinks water as soon as whisky, and can live happy on country prog? No wine—no beer, even—on active service, and precious little other times. And hates the smell of a weed——”
“Ah, nonsense, nonsense! You mayn’t smoke?”
“Not on service. At Poonah Stewart and I would get away by ourselves when we couldn’t stand it any longer, and one keep ‘Cave!’ while t’other indulged. But as often as not the old lad would be after us before we were done.”
“Ah, Brian, it’s a reformed character you’ll be, and no thanks to yourself! And the poverty-stricken look that seems to hang about you—what of that, now?”
“That comes of wearing uniform always and all day long, my dear creature. And when your coat gets shabby, why—‘Hang it, sir! have it mended. An honest patch won’t shame either you or me, let me tell you.’”
“Well, you’re not quite come to that yet.”
“Am I not, indeed? This is my best coat, ma’am, put on to impress the ladies on landing. And even in having two, I’m breaking my General’s rules. What d’ye think is his allowance for a fellow on active service? Why, just what he stands up in, and nothing else but a pair of shoes, a second shirt and inexpressibles, a flannel waistcoat for chilly weather, a towel, and a piece of soap!”
“But what about coloured clothes?”