Their guns were lying about in any old place; their kits were on the
ground; their belts were unbuckled. Suddenly the captain rode up the
road and looked over the hedge at the scene. The men were sitting on
the benches, on the ground, anywhere, and were all smoking my best
Egyptian cigarettes, and I was running round as happy as a queen, seeing
them so contented and comfortable.
It was a rude awakening when the captain rode up the street.
There was a sudden jumping up, a hurried buckling up of belts, a grab
for kits and guns, and an unceremonious cut for the gate. I heard a
volley from the officer. I marked a serious effort on the part of the
men to keep the smiles off their faces as they hurriedly got their kits
on their backs and their guns on their shoulders, and, rigidly saluting,
dispersed up the hill, leaving two very straight men marching before the
gate as if they never in their lives had thought of anything but picket
duty.
The captain never even looked at me, but rode up the hill after his men.
A few minutes later he returned, dismounted at the gate, tied his horse,
and came in. I was a bit confused.
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