Paddy waved his thumb disrespectfully towards the rear of the column.
"And what can you expect of a man that goes to the wars in a fancy petticoat, let alone a khaki apron to cover up the front of it?" he demanded."And look at the bare knees of 'em, for all the world like knots in the branches of an oak-tree! They may be trained to believe it's comfortable to walk round in public with their kneepans in plain sight; but no man can ever make me think it's either beautiful to the eye, or respectful in the presence of one's betters.""But their officers wear the same uniform, Paddy," Weldon objected.
"Who are their betters?"
"Myself, little Canuck, and yourself, too," Paddy answered calmly.
"The maple and the shamrock, severally and together, can knock the spots out of all the thistles that's growing.""Until it comes to a fight," Carew suggested, from Paddy's other side."The Highlanders have made their record, this time."But Paddy shook his head."Wait then till the end of the chapter,"he predicted."My turn hasn't come yet.Belike I'll be the hero of them all.I was minding my pots and my kettles, while the Black Watch was slinging lead up on the road into Kimberley.But, faith, if I was one of them, with the choice before me between a glorious death and the having to live in the sound of the bagpipes, I'd mount a Red Cross and take a white flag in my hand and sally forth to be seen and shot by the Boers.""You don't like the bagpipes, Paddy?"
Paddy's reply was sententious.
"Did you ever hear a pig soliloquizing to himself, just as he crossed the tracks between the wheels of an express train? Well then!""Meanwhile," Carew observed thoughtfully; "I wonder why we are out on this trek.""To escort the little Canuck with his mounts, and to study the surface of the land, to be sure."Carew's eye swept the barren, desolate expanse about them.
"It is a bit monotonous, though."
"It's monotony that's healthy.You can't make a whole dinner off from red pepper, and you can't make a whole campaign off from smokeless powder.In either case, you get too much heated up, for the show it all makes.Strike hard and eat hot at long intervals and with exceeding unction; and, meanwhile, pause and let it soak in.
It's not the hottest fire that gives off the most blazes.And where is that nigger of a Kruger Bobs?""In among the wagons with The Nig." "Just for all the world like the deuce of spades! The Black Watch would better adopt the two of 'em for their colors.The Nig is a pretty bit of property; but this is the brute for me." And Paddy bent over in the saddle to stroke the neck of Piggie who snapped back at him testily.
However, in all truth, the little gray broncho deserved all of Paddy's praise.Scarred from muzzle to pastern by errant bullets, limping slightly on one fore leg, she still had borne her master bravely over weary miles of veldt, into many a skirmish and through the kicking, squealing throngs of her kindred which crowded the Lindley kraal.Long since, Weldon had discovered that the thoroughbred Nig was an ornament; but that Piggie was a necessity.
Again and yet again, her flying feet and gritty temper had brought him, unscathed, through perilous plights.She read his mind as by instinct; left unguided, she guided herself with exceeding discretion; and, upon more than one occasion, she had endured the nervous strain of feeling a human body dangling limply above the saddle bow, held in place by main strength of her master who, crouching forward beneath the heavy fire, could only indicate the way of safety by the pressure of this heel and then that against her heaving flanks.Surely, if ever honors could be given to a faithful, plucky little broncho, Piggie should have been gazetted for the Distinguished Service Order.Not to the men alone is due all the honor of victory.
But now Piggie, fresh from a prolonged interval of resting in the care of Kruger Bobs, felt that she was out on an excursion of pure pleasure.Behind her trailed a long column of men and mounts and wagons; around her was a knot of horses whom she knew well; and before her stretched away the dry and level veldt, broken at the sky-line by a range of hills that rose sharply in a jagged line which culminated in one peak lifted far above all the others.
In the very front of the column rode a score or more of the South African Light Horse, with Weldon, for the moment, in command.The man was showing, just then, something of the temper of his mount.It would have been good to leave behind him the slow-moving column and go dashing away alone, far across the level plain.A spirit of restlessness was upon him; Paddy's utterances grew vague in his ears, and he cast longing glances towards the range of hills to the southward, as if eager to explore them and find what secrets, if any, lay within their keeping.Then he reined in his broncho and forced his mind back to Paddy's conversation, still upon the deeds of the kilted heroes of the Black Watch.
"And they do say," he was observing; "that Wauchope was light in his mind--fey, them piping, petticoated Scotchmen calls it--the night before his death.Now that's something that's beyond my thinking.No dead man ever knows he's going to die.Witness the last words of most of 'em! They make up their death-bed speeches, and then they turn thrifty and save up the speeches till next time.Little Canuck dear, what would you say, if you was hit?"Weldon laughed shortly.
"I should probably say 'Thank God,'" he answered.
Paddy crossed himself.
"And might heaven forgive you then, little one!" he said gravely.
