Wish they'd visit ours. Pinewood's a
married man. He'd know how to be'ave!"
"Well, I ain't goin' to amuse my prisoner alone. 'E's gettin' 'omesick,"
cried Copper. "One of you thieves read out what's vexin' Old Barbarity an'
'is 'arem these days. You'd better listen, Burjer, because, afterwards,
I'm goin' to fall out an' perpetrate those nameless barbarities all over
you to keep up the reputation of the British Army."
From that English weekly, to bar out which a large and perspiring staff of
Press censors toiled seven days of the week at Cape Town, did Pinewood of
the Reserve read unctuously excerpts of the speeches of the accredited
leaders of His Majesty's Opposition. The night-picket arrived in the
middle of it, but stayed entranced without paying any compliments, till
Pinewood had entirely finished the leading article, and several occasional
notes.
"Gentlemen of the jury," said Alf Copper, hitching up what war had left to
him of trousers--"you've 'eard what 'e's been fed up with. _Do_ you blame
the beggar? 'Cause I don't! ... Leave 'im alone, McBride. He's my first
and only cap-ture, an' I'm goin' to walk 'ome with 'im, ain't I, Ducky?
... Fall in, Burjer. It's Bermuda, or Umballa, or Ceylon for you--and I'd
give a month's pay to be in your little shoes."
As not infrequently happens, the actual moving off the ground broke the
prisoner's nerve. He stared at the tinted hills round him, gasped and
began to struggle--kicking, swearing, weeping, and fluttering all
together.
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