"Now," I say to the Amiable Amanuensis and Adaptable Author, "you
read your stuff aloud with emphasis and discretion, and I'll chuck in
the ornamental part. Excuse me, that's _my_ drink," I say, with an
emphasis on the possessive pronoun, for the Soldierly Scribe, in a
moment of absorption, was about to apply that process to my liquor. He
apologises handsomely, and commences his recital. In the absence of a
gong,--one ought never to travel without a gong,--I whack the tea-tray
with a paper-knife. "All in to begin!"
"_The mail train_," &c., &c. I make my notes, and remark that MURRAY
and BRADSHAW lost a great chance in not having long ago secured the
services of the Corresponding Captain. "_The railroad passes through
mountain scenery of exceptional_," &c., &c. BRADSHAW and MURRAY, not
to mention BAEDEKER and BLACK, absolutely not in it with the Wandering
Warrior. "_About thirty miles from Cape Town_"--
A SIMPLE SUGGESTION.
I stop him at this point. "Couldn't we have a song here?"
"Why?" asks the Simple Soldier, glaring at me, and pulling his
moustache.
"Just to lighten it up a bit," I explain.
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