"Sticks crossed above his head," whispered Torpenhow.
"I know. I know! Who should know if I don't? H'sh!"
The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the men swung forward to the crash of the
band. Dick felt the wind of the massed movement in his face, heard the
maddening tramp of feet and the friction of the pouches on the belts. The big
drum pounded out the tune. It was a music-hall refrain that made a perfect
quickstep--
"He must be a man of decent height,
He must be a man of weight,
He must come home on a Saturday night
In a thoroughly sober state;
He must know how to love me,
And he must know how to kiss;
And if he's enough to keep us both
I can't refuse him bliss."
"What's the matter?" said Torpenhow, as he saw Dick's head fall when the last
of the regiment had departed.
"Nothing. I feel a little bit out of the running,--that's all. Torp, take me
back. Why did you bring me out?"
CHAPTER XII
There were three friends that buried the fourth,
The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes
And they went south and east, and north,--
The strong man fights, but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead,--
The strong man fights, but the sick man dies.--
"And would he were with us now," they said,
"The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.
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