Sir Munion did warm to a thing whenever he began to hear his own words. He painted war as it has always been painted, one of the most beautiful things you could imagine. And then it mustn’t be supposed that it was like those wars that there used to be, a long way off. There would be houses where you would be billeted, and good food, and shady trees and villages wherever you went. And it was such an opportunity of seeing the Continent (“the Continent as it really is,” Sir Munion called it) as would never come again, and he only wished he were younger. Sir Munion really did wish it, as he spoke, for his own words stirred him profoundly; but somehow or other they did not stir Sergeant Cane. No, he had done his share, and he had a family to look after. Sir Munion could not understand him: he went back to the Big House and said so. He had told him all the advantages he could think of that were there to be had for the asking, and Sergeant Cane merely neglected them. “Let me have a try,” said Arthur Smith. “He soldiered with me before.” Sir Munion shrugged his shoulders. He had all the advantages at his fingers’ ends, from pay to billeting: there was nothing more to be said. Nevertheless young Smith went. “Hullo, Sergeant Cane,” said Smith. “Hello, sir,” said the sergeant. “Do you remember that night at Reit River?” “Don’t I, sir,” said Cane. “One blanket each and no ground sheet?” “I remember, sir,” said Cane. “Didn’t it rain,” said Smith. “It rained that night, proper.” “Drowned a few of the lice, I suppose.” “Not many,” said Cane. “No, not many,” Smith reflected. “The Boers had the range all right that time.” “Gave it us proper,” said Cane. “We were hungry that night,” said Smith. “I could have eaten biltong.” “I did eat some of it,” said Cane. “Not bad stuff, what there was of it, only not enough.” “I don’t think,” said Smith, “that I’ve ever slept on the bare earth since.” “No, sir?” said Cane. “It’s hard. You get used to it. But it will always be hard.” “Yes, it will always be hard,” said Smith. “Do you remember the time we were thirsty?” “Oh, yes, sir,” said Cane, “I remember that. One doesn’t forget that.” “No. I still dream of it sometimes,” said Smith. “It makes a nasty dream. I wake with my mouth all dry too, when I dream that.” “Yes,” said Cane, “one doesn’t forget being thirsty.” “Well,” said Smith, “I suppose we’re for it all over again?” “I suppose so, sir,” said Cane. An Investigation Into the Causes and Origin of the War