The Great Egg Trick
Wednesday, October 10th.
“When scouting and you must not tarry,
Of things you can borrow or beg,
The best, but the worst you can carry,
Is the excellent, succulent egg.”
Extract from contemplated “Loot Lyrics.”
To-day we have returned to Commando Nek, at least within a mile or so of it. (A cart has just come in from Rietfontein, and they say there are four bags of mails for the Composites, so we poor Sussex de’ils ought to have a look in.) We were advance party to-day, and a friend and I had the good luck to get a fine lot of eggs, of which I have not had any for a long time. As you may imagine, eggs are not very easily carried by the uninitiated, especially when he happens to be a horseman. The first time I managed to get some I got a couple from a farm down the next valley, and was debating how I should carry them, when the officer of our troop, who was just ahead, turned round and sternly told me to mount and get forward, and as he stopped for me to do so, I was rather awkwardly situated, my rifle being in one hand and the two eggs in the other. However, I seized the reins somehow or other, and did the great egg trick successfully. Missing other feats in which I have never once broken or cracked even one, to-day I eclipsed all previous accomplishments, inasmuch as I carried in the only two tunic pockets I have without holes, THREE DOZEN EGGS loose, and despite having to dismount and mount twice, brought them into camp without breaking or cracking one. Once or twice, when we had to do a trot, our sergeant-major asked why I was riding so curiously, and I told him I was feeling rather queer, but thought it would wear off when I reached camp—it did. A friend and I got these eggs in rather an amusing manner. We spotted a Kaffir village and riding to it, enquired at every kraal for eggs, “Eggs for the general—for Lord Roberts!” but, alas, they had none, “I’kona,” signifying the negative. One enterprising youth, however, called to me as I was riding off and brought me four, for which I paid him sixpence. Then once again as we were going away, he called to us—evidently the pay, pay, pay of the absent-minded foreign devil has touched his savage heart—for lo and behold his neighbours had some for sale, and came forward with a dozen in a tin, then their neighbours came to the front with about a score, and yet another lot appeared with more—in all, we got fifty eggs, of which I pocketed three dozen, and carried the remainder in a handkerchief and surrendered them to our major, saying I had got them for him (he was in want of some), and thus appeased him. Had I carried them all in my mouchoir I might have lost the lot, but we simple Yeomen “know a thing or three,” as the ancient ballad goes.
We have just drawn rations for fourteen days and been joined by some more M.I., so it looks as if
“Troops may come and troops may go,
But we go on for ever.”
“Go hon!” seems to be our call and counter cry.
Commando Nek, Friday, October 12th, 1900.
Excerpt from proposed Christmas Panto.
Place—The Transvaal. Period—Victorian.
Officers’ Tent.
First Officer: “I heah the men are gwousing about their gwub.”
Second Officer: “Er—I think they get their wations wegularly.”
Third Officer: “Oh, dem! They’re alwight. Anyhow, what do they want with gwub? A little more turkey and peas, and—er pass the whisky, Fwed.”
The Waggon.
Quartermaster-Sergeant (to kindred spirit): “Look ’ere; twelve tins of bacon, sixteen of jam, biscuits, and a jar of rum. Lemme see; there’s twelve of us, and twenty of them. ‘Umph, that’s eight tins of bacon and eleven of jam for us, and four of bacon and five of jam for them. Let ’em ’ave four biscuits a man; save the best for us—don’t forget—”
Kindred Spirit: “And the rum?”
Quartermaster-Sergeant: “Confound it; I nearly forgot that. Oh—er—er—take ’em a cupful, and—er—say we’re on half rations.”
Chorus from minor waggonites from round cook-house fire.
“We don’t want to fight,
And, by Jingo, if—we—do,
We’ve got the rum, we’ve got the tea,
And we’ve got the sugar, too.”
The Yeomen’s Lines. Men just in from patrol.
Man with bullet hole in hat: “Is tea up?”
Enter orderly corporal with rations: “I say, you fellows, it’s ‘damall’ again to day.”
Chorus: “!!!???***”
Of course it is evident to you that the above extracts are from a burlesque written by a man in the ranks. Alas! there is a perpetual feud existent between “the brave, silent men at the back,” and ditto those at the front, consequently any joke at the expense of the “waggon crowd” is always appreciated beyond its value. Sergeant-Major Hunt, who had been acting as quartermaster-sergeant for several weeks, did us remarkably well; but, alas, he has been invalided into Pretoria, and another has reigned in his stead, who has done evil in (or rather out of) our sight; being either incompetent or too clever. By the foregoing, you can see that I have not got much news to record. We expect some of the time-expired Police to join us on Sunday or Monday, and so, I fancy, we shall not move till they come up.