Involuntarily he smiled, as he walked off to his duty.Carew had been an edifying spectacle, as he had sacrificed himself upon the altar of cleanliness.He had been neither deft, dignified nor devout; and, in all truth, Alice Mellen would have found it hard to recognize her finical patient in the dusty, unshaven man whose hair bore unmistakable signs of having been pruned with a pair of pocket scissors.Little of Carew's past month had been spent in the base camp at Springfontein.With hundreds of other men, he had gone galloping up and down the Free State on the slippery heels of De Wet, now being shot at by prowling Boers, now engaged in a lively skirmish from which he never made his exit totally unscathed, now riding for weary, dusty miles upon a scent which ultimately proved to be a false one.And, meanwhile, not a postbag came into camp without a letter for Carew, bearing the mark of Johannesburg.It was not altogether resultless that Carew's foot had been obstinately slow in its healing.
To Weldon, a fixture in camp, fell the care of receiving Carew's mail.At last, when one day the bag brought in two letters addressed in the same dashing, angular handwriting, he forsook his principles and made open comment.
"There is a slight monotony about your mail, in these latter days, Carew," he observed dispassionately.And Carew had answered, with perfect composure,--"Yes, in view of my chronic trick of being potted at, I find it wise to keep on good terms with my nurse.It may prove handy in case of accident, like an insurance policy, you know.Is that all?" And, cramming the letters into his pocket, he walked away to his tent.
And Weldon, as he watched him, nodded contentedly to himself.He liked Carew; he also liked Alice Mellen.Beyond that, he made no effort to go.Just now, he cared to penetrate the thoughts of but one woman.The others he was willing to take on trust.Nevertheless, it would have caused him some surprise, could he have reviewed all the mental processes of Alice Mellen, during the past ten months.
For Weldon, the days at Springfontein differed not one whit, one from another, yet each day was full of an excitement which sent his blood stinging through his veins.Every man in the regiment could ride a broken horse; but, for many of them their attainments stopped there, and broken horses were few and far between.With the increasing need of troopers for the guerrilla raiding into which the war was degenerating, with the inevitable losses of a long campaign, mounts of any kind were scarce.Nevertheless, consternation had descended upon the camp, one day, when three hundred kicking, squealing American bronchos had been detrained and placed at their service.The next day, casualties were frequent; on the day after that, there was made announcement that mounted parade would be omitted.Weldon read the notice, smiled and went in search of his captain.He was tired of inaction, and he felt his muscles growing soft.They hardened speedily, however.
Day after day, he went striding into the kraal whence, after a skirmish which was more or less prolonged, he emerged astride a mount which, with shrieking voice and rampant hoofs, gave notice to all that such a liberty could not be permitted.Nevertheless, it was permitted.Sometimes, the final contest took place miles away from the point of its beginning.Sometimes horse and rider settled the matter in the course of a few concentric circles of an hundred-yard radius; sometimes it bucked; sometimes it rolled, and sometimes it merely sat down upon its haunches, dog-wise, and refused to budge.
Almost invariably, it came out from the contest, unscarred save for its dignity and its temper.Weldon's lips shut tight; but his eyes rarely blazed.These wild, frightened creatures taxed his patience and his resource; but they hardly touched his temper in the least.
"What's the use of thrashing a beast that's mad with terror?" he answered one critical ******* who had watched the game from a safe distance."The creature is in a funk, as it is; there's no use in adding to it.All I'm after is to teach 'em that saddles and bridles don't bite.Treat 'em decently and sit tight, and they'll come right and learn to trust you in the end."And, as mount after mount was delivered over to the waiting authorities, it came to be a matter of general belief that the regimental rough-rider knew his business, albeit he accomplished it more by dint of urging than by many blows.Six weeks of this work had told upon him, told in the right direction.Under the brown skin, the muscles stood out like knotted cords; his nerves were steady; he ate like a wolf and slept the dreamless sleep of a healthy child.To the outward eye, his face changed but little.Its outlines were more rugged, the curves of his lips a bit more resolute; but that was all.
Now and then, amid the merry group at the camp fire, he sat silent, while he let his mind range away to the southward.Somewhere there, in the green-ringed town in the mountain's shelter, was a tall girl with yellow hair and eyes which matched the zenith when it darkens after the dropping of the sun.His fancy painted her in every conceivable situation: walking, riding, resting at noonday in the shaded western end of the veranda, or pouring tea for relays of thirsty guests.As a rule, the Captain's figure was in the background of these pictures, and Weldon was content to have it so.
In all South Africa, these were his two best friends; it was good that they could be together.And the Captain was an older man, much older.When one lives in the open air during twenty-four hours of every day, jealousy has scant place in his mind.The smaller vices are for the cramped town, not for the limitless, unbroken veldt.
