"
"Granted they could find one to bury," Weldon returned. "Meanwhile,
observe your bath tub."
Carew glanced down at the dust-filled buckets at his feet.
"Oh, hang!" he said concisely. "And I was about to prink."
"One would think you needed it now more than ever," Weldon answered,
as he shook himself free from the thickest of the dust. "What's the
use of trying to keep clean, Carew?"
"Precious little. I used to talk about I 'the un-tubbed.' Now I
mean, merely for the sake of example, to shave twice in the month,
and swab myself off between whiles. It's not for comfort, I assure
you. It's my belief that an occasional bath is worse than none. It
merely stirs up memories of the buried past, and aspirations that
can't be fulfilled. However--" And Carew, the quondam exquisite,
pulled off his socks and shirt, punched them down into one of the
buckets and then did his British best to wash himself in the other.
His lamentations rose again, however, when he put on his time-
stained uniform once more.
"I now understand why Brother Boer sleeps in his clothes," he
observed grimly. "Cleanliness, may be next to godliness; but it is
mighty near the edge of the diabolical to put yourself back into
clothes that are only fit for the dust bin.
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