fuddled man behind a gun is worse than no man to me."

The voice rang hard and clear as a gong. "I'm no teetotaller. Abstinence
is the rule I enforce, by precept and example. While men are men they'll
drink strong liquor. But as long as they are not fool-men and brute-men,
they can be trusted not to lap when they're on duty. Those I find
untrustworthy I mark down, and they will be dealt with rigorously. You
understand me, Brooker? You look as if you did. You've had a narrow
squeak. Be thankful for it that nothing but a bruise over the ribs has
come of it. Corporal, fall in your men, and get to your duty."

W. Keyse and his martial citizens tramped on, the resuscitated Brooker
flying rags of sanguine stain. Then the stern face of the Chief broke up
in laughter. The crinkled-up eyes ran over with tears of mirth.

"Lord, that fellow will be the death of me! Tartaglia in the flesh--how
old Gozzi would have revelled in him! Those pathetic, oyster-eyes, that
round, flabby face, that comic nose, and the bleating voice with the
sentimental quaver in it, reeling off the live man's dying speech...." He
wiped his brimming eyes. "Since the time when Boer spies hocussed him on
guard--you remember that lovely affair?--he's registered a vow to impress
me with his gallantry and devotion, or die in the attempt. He's the most
admirably unconscious humbug I've ever yet met. Sands his sugar and
brown-papers his teas philanthropically, for the good of the public, and
denounces men who put in Old Squareface and whisky-pegs, as he fuddles
himself with his loquat brandy after shop-hours in the sitting-room back
of the store. But let us be thankful that Providence has sent Brooker on a
special mission to play Pantaloon in this grimmish little interlude of
ours. For we'll want every scrap of Comic Relief we can get by-and-by,
Saxham, if the other one doesn't turn up--say by the middle of January."

"I understand, sir." Saxham, to whom this man's face was as a book well
loved, read in it that the Commissariat was caving. "There has been
another Boer cattle-raid?"

The face that was turned to his own in reply had suddenly grown
deeply-lined and haggard. "There has been a lot of cattle-shooting.
Lobbing shrapnel at grazing cows was always quite a favourite game with
Brounckers. But his gunners hit oftener than they used to. And the
Government forage won't hold out for ever." He patted the brown Waler, who
pricked his sagacious ears and threw up