In the presence of
danger, his humor never failed him. In those sorrowful hours which
followed the cessation of firing, no man was in greater demand than
he. Many a brave fellow had died with his hand shut fast over
Frazer's long, slim fingers; many a man's first, awful moments in
hospital had been soothed by the touch of those same firm, slim
hands. And in the singsongs around the camp fire, or at the mess
table, Frazer's voice was always heard, no matter how great the
tumult of a moment before.
Like many another of his countrymen, Captain Frazer had learned
lessons since he had left the ship at Cape Town, just a year before.
He had come out from England, trained to the inflexibly formal
tactics of the British army. Again and again he had seen those
tactics proved of no avail in the face of an invisible enemy and an
almost inexpugnable country. He had learned the nerve-racking
tension of being exposed to a storm of bullets that came apparently
from nowhere to cut down the British lines as the hail cuts down the
standing grain; he had learned the shock of seeing the level veldt,
over which he was marching, burst into a line of fire at his very
feet from a spot where it seemed that scarce a dozen men could lie
in hiding, to say nothing of a dozen scores.
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