"And gives their ration of rum to Paddy," he added. "Go along, man,
and set your kettles to boiling, while you return thanks that you
know a good thing when you see it."
"Paddy is a great boy," Carew observed, as the little Irishman
saluted them in farewell, then turned and strolled away in the
direction of his quarters.
"And, what's more, a most outrageously good cook," Weldon assented.
"If Paddy's ambition to shoot a gun should ever be fulfilled,
England might gain a soldier; but it would lose a chef of the cordon
bleu."
"If I were to choose, I'd sacrifice his sense of taste for the sake
of keeping his sense of humor," Carew returned. "Not even war can
subdue Paddy."
With a disdainful gesture, Weldon pointed out across the sun-baked
parade ground with the stem of his pipe.
"War! This?" he protested. "It is nothing in this world but a Sunday
school picnic."
And Carew, as his eyes followed the pointing pipe-stem, was forced
to give his assent.
It was now five days since, with scores of their mates, Weldon and
Carew had been passed from their medical examination to the double
test of their riding and their shooting. Elated by their threefold
recommendation, they had lost no time in donning their khaki and
taking up their quarters under the fraction of canvas allotted to
them.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61