ot on to a small track, and
finally, what might be termed by courtesy, a road, and was carefully
studying it when one of our sergeants and a staff officer rode up. I
told the latter that my horse was done, and the noble steed bore out my
statement by collapsing under me as I spoke. The officer advised me to
wait for the main body and lead my horse on after them, which I did,
dragging him along for about a dozen weary miles, till I reached the
camp at dark, just in time to participate in a lovely outlying picket.
The next morning, having reported the case to the sergeant-major, he
told me to lead the horse from the camp with the convoy, and instructed
the farrier-sergeant to shoot him a little way out. So, having put my
saddle on our waggon and asked the farrier if he had been told about the
shooting, I proceeded to drag the poor beggar along. After toiling
forward some considerable distance, I looked around for the man whose
duty it was to shoot him, but could see him nowhere. So on I pushed,
inquiring of everybody, "Where is the Farrier-Sergeant?" I lagged behind
for him, and then toiled, perspiring and ankle deep in dust, ahead for
him, but found him not. Even during the mid-day halt I could not find
him, and as the beast had fallen once, I was getting sick of it.
Everybody I accosted advised me to shoot the brute myself, the same as
other fellows did in most of the Colonial corps, so at length, to cut
this part of the story short, giving up all hope of being relieved of my
burden by the farrier-sergeant, who somewhere was ambling along
comfortably on a good horse--having again had the sorry steed fall--I
led him aside from the track of the convoy and ended his South African
career with my revolver. Alas, _Bete Noire!_ Had we but understood one
another better the parting would have been a sad one. The case being
otherwise, I felt, it must be admitted, no regret whatever. And now the
interesting part of the episode begins. Hearing my shots (I am sorry to
say I fired more than once in accomplishing my fell deed) the
farrier-sergeant galloped up. "Who gave you permission to shoot this
horse?" "Nobody; I couldn't find you, and couldn't lug the brute any
further." "I shall report you." "I don't care." Then followed high
words, involving bitter personalities and we parted. After tramping a
good dozen miles further, I arrived at our camp in the dark, and had the
luck to find our lines soon. To an interested and sympathetic gro