From a dozen points above, the
rain came pattering down, seeking with unerring instinct that
precise spot on each man's back where skin and collar meet.
"Whither?" Carew queried, as Weldon made his fifth move.
"Outside, to see what the pickets are about."
"But it rains," Carew protested lazily.
"So I observe. Still, I'd rather take it outside as it comes,
instead of having a gutter empty itself on me, when I am supposed to
be under cover."
"Better stay in," Carew advised him.
"No use. Sleep is out of the question, and I'd rather be moving; it
is less monotonous."
"Go along, then, and look out for Boers. Can I have your bag?"
"You're too wet; you'd soak up all the inside of it. If I am to get
a chill, I'd rather do it from my dampness than your own." Carew
laid hands on the bag.
"What a selfish beast you are, Weldon!" he observed tranquilly.
"This is no sack-race; you can't go out to walk in your bag. In
fact, it takes two to make a navigable pair. Then why not let me
have it?"
"Why didn't you bring your own?"
Already Carew was arranging himself in his new covering.
"I mislaid mine in Cape Town," he replied sleepily.
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