I didn’t like to hurt the gallant scribe’s feelings, but the fact is that he, as a reader, has a very soothing-syrupy tone and, I fancy, that in less than a quarter of an hour, judging by the moiety of my cigar.  I must have fallen fast asleep.

“That’s posted, is it?” I ask, evading further explanation.  “It is,” he answers.  “But I’ve got another lot—­”

“Good!” I interrupt him, rather abruptly I own, but, from experience I say it, if I don’t take myself when in the humour—­’on the hop,’ so to speak, as they said of the scarabaeus in Kent—­(trust me for natural history and plenty of it)—­I’m no use at all.  Now at this moment I am wide awake, a giant refreshed; so I light another fragrant weed, and call for another cool drink, as I haven’t the smallest idea what became of the one I ordered when the Gallant Graphist commenced reading; I rather suspect he ‘put it to his lips when so dispoged,’ and that, in this instance also, he mistook my nod for silent but emphatic encouragement.

“Now,” I say to the Amiable Amanuensis and Adaptable Author, “you read your stuff aloud with emphasis and discretion, and I’ll chuck in the ornamental part.  Excuse me, that’s my drink,” I say, with an emphasis on the possessive pronoun, for the Soldierly Scribe, in a moment of absorption, was about to apply that process to my liquor.  He apologises handsomely, and commences his recital.  In the absence of a gong,—­one ought never to travel without a gong,—­I whack the tea-tray with a paper-knife.  “All in to begin!”

“The mail train,” &c., &c.  I make my notes, and remark that MURRAY and BRADSHAW lost a great chance in not having long ago secured the services of the Corresponding Captain. “The railroad passes through mountain scenery of exceptional,” &c., &c.  BRADSHAW and MURRAY, not to mention BAEDEKER and BLACK, absolutely not in it with the Wandering Warrior. “About thirty miles from Cape Town”—­

A SIMPLE SUGGESTION.

I stop him at this point.  “Couldn’t we have a song here?”

“Why?” asks the Simple Soldier, glaring at me, and pulling his moustache.

“Just to lighten it up a bit,” I explain.  “You see ’About thirty miles’ and so forth, suggests the old song of Within a Mile of Edinboro’ Town.”

“Don’t see it,” says the Virtuous Veteran, stolidly.

“Well, I’ll make a note of it,” and I add pleasantly, as is my way, “if it’s a song, I’ll make several notes of it.”

“Um!” growls the Severe Soldier, and once again I defeat him in an attempt at surprising my outpost, i.e., my tumbler of cool drink.  He apologises gruffly but politely, and then continues his reading.

ON WE GOES AGAIN.

He continues to read about “distances,” “so many feet above sea-levels,” “engineering skill,” &c., &c., which I observe to him will all make capital padding for a guide-book, when I am suddenly struck by the sound of the word I had just used, viz., ‘padding.’