The skirmish had ended
with a charge up the stairway. Weldon, that same night, had written
to Ethel a wholly humorous account of the whole affair, and it was
not until long afterwards that she had learned from Carew, who had
been of the party, which was the trooper who had mounted guard over
the room where the aged grandmother had tucked herself away under
her bed. The old Dutch vrouw had bidden him to share her shelter;
but he had taken note of her dimensions, and had declined her
hospitality. Later on, when the fight was over and she had painfully
wriggled her way out from her trap, he had also declined certain of
her manifestations of gratitude. Even chivalry to the aged possesses
its humorous side.
Then, one November night, Weldon came into his tent with alert step
and glowing eyes. He found Carew going through his camp outfit in
detail, and, squatting on the floor in the corner, Kruger Bobs was
cleaning accoutrements as if his life depended on it.
"You look as if events were about to happen," he observed, from the
dispassionate distance of the doorway.
"They are."
"Ask them to include me, then."
"What do you need of events, you regimental broncho-buster?"
"One gets sick of even the best horseflesh in time," he answered
nonchalantly.
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