Chapter XXIII
“Oh, do hurry up, for heaven’s sake, Graves; it’s past three, and we’re playing in the second chukker.”
“Don’t fidget me, but come in and sit down. Throw that dog out of the chair;” whereupon Captain Annesley, white-breeched and brown-booted, entered his friend’s room, and having lifted the sleeping dachshund, and placed him carefully on his knee, sat down, his eyes resting morosely on the scantily-clad figure before him.
“We’ll be late,” he observed.
“You’ve said that before. I’m shoving on all I know. There’s a drill-book on the table there; take it and read it for once. It will do you good.”
Annesley declined the monstrous proposition.
“Drill-books,” he remarked, “are for those with no ideas of their own.”
“That’s why I suggest your reading it, Worm, but that ain’t yours, that’s Graeme’s. I recognise the brand; there’s enough about, too, goodness knows, of the same sort.”
“Madder every day,” continued Annesley. “He pow-wowed the squadron this morning in a white top-hat. A—white—top-hat! I’m not lying, Graves.”
“I saw him, it’s sickening. Lord! what a second in command, or rather C.O., for Royle’s only a dummy. I thought too, after that last show-up before Bumps, he meant putting his foot down. Talked enough about it, but he ain’t done it. Graeme wins another silly battle or two, and it’s worse than ever. He daren’t say “Damn it” to him now. Cavalry officer in a white top-hat, God!”
“Funny thing, the men never laughed. They did when they saw him first, but once he began to talk they shut up, and sat listening with their mouths open; so did Fanshawe and I, made us think, Graves, no end, felt I’d like to be—Napoleon.”
“You—Napoleon?”
“Well, why not? Every soldier, you know, carries a field-marshal’s what-you-may-call-it in his ruddy——”
“Shut up, for God’s sake, you make me ill, Worm.”
“Think he’s really mad, Graves? Pa says he is.”
“Pa?”
“Pa says—his room’s next to Graeme’s, you know—that he hears him talking to himself at night. Damn sick about it Pa is, says it stops him sleeping. It’s ever since he came back three weeks ago. Where did he go, d’you know?”
“You can see it in the leave-book, if you’re interested, I’m not.”
“Graves, I believe it’s a girl’s put Graeme wrong.”
“You’ve not the slightest reason for thinking such a thing, Worm, Graeme never speaks to a woman.”
“I know, but, all the same, I’m sure of it. What did he go on leave for then, why does any fellow go on leave in this cursed country, except he’s after a girl, or looking for one? If that’s so, and he’s taken the knock, I’m sorry for him; must be damnable to be chucked by a girl. Gad, if Fanny were to play it low down on me, I’d... I don’t know what I would do, Graves. You’ve heard me speak of Fanny, haven’t you?”
“I have, many times. Are you coming to polo?”
“Yes, wait a minute though; there’s something else I wanted to tell you, only it went out of my head, talking of Graeme. I had a letter from Johnson, at Cape Town, this morning, and he says the Mahonga show is all on again, and we shall be for it.”
“Johnson’s a fool, always spreading some shave. Come on, if you are coming, that is.” The pair went out, and mounting their waiting ponies rode off to the polo ground.
Johnson, however, though a fool, as Graves justly observed, proved himself on this occasion a true prophet, for next day into the ante-room—at the time crowded with officers drinking afternoon tea—burst Porky, pregnant with great news. For a moment he stood surveying them, his face bright with anticipation of the unwonted delights of an attentive audience, and then, as they, as usual, paid no heed to his presence, he let loose the torrent fighting for escape within him.
“I’ve news,” he said, in a would-be indifferent manner, but again no one heeded.
“I’ve news,” he roared, “listen, damn you!”
“Don’t shout, Porky,” said a voice, “what’s the matter?”
“Matter, why war’s the matter,” and at the word “war” a hush fell, and everybody looked up. “Bloody war!” he continued, having an audience at last, “and this gallant corps is for it, whether or no. The Mahongas have risen, and are playing hell all round, so sharpen your swords and spears, my sons, and make your last will and testament.”
“It’s a lie,” said Graves crossly, from his corner.
“It’s no lie, it’s all right, I tell you; no damned shaves or leg-pulls this time. I had it straight from Cape Town ten minutes ago.”
“It’s begun, thank God,” muttered a voice, and Graeme rose and made his way out, his departure being unnoticed in the general uproar.
“And I thank God too,” said young Fanshawe, overhearing the latter part of the sentence, “that it’s you, and neither Porky nor Royle who will run the show in this same bloody war.”