“I was right pleased right through that I hadn’t killed any of these cheerful kids; but none the less I couldn’t help thinking that a few more Kaffirs would have served me just as well for advertising purposes as white men. No, sir. Anywhichway you regard the proposition, twenty-one casualties after months of close friendship like ours was—paltry. “They gave me taffy about the gun—the British use taffy where we use sugar. It’s cheaper, and gets there just the same. They sat around and proved to me that my gun was too good, too uniform—shot as close as a Mannlicher rifle. “Says one kid chewing a bit of grass: ‘I counted eight of your shells, Sir, burst in a radius of ten feet. All of ’em would have gone through one waggon-tilt. It was beautiful,’ he says. ‘It was too good.’ “I shouldn’t wonder if the boys were right. My Laughtite is too mathematically uniform in propelling power. Yes; she was too good for this refractory fool of a country. The training gear was broke, too, and we had to swivel her around by the trail. But I’ll build my next Zigler fifteen hundred pounds heavier. Might work in a gasoline motor under the axles. I must think that up. “‘Well, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I’d hate to have been the death of any of you; and if a prisoner can deed away his property, I’d love to present the Captain here with what he’s seen fit to leave of my Zigler.’ “‘Thanks awf’ly,’ says my Captain. ‘I’d like her very much. She’d look fine in the mess at Woolwich. That is, if you don’t mind, Mr. Zigler.’ “‘Go right ahead,’ I says. ‘I’ve come out of all the mess I’ve any use for; but she’ll do to spread the light among the Royal British Artillery.’ “I tell you, Sir, there’s not much of anything the matter with the Royal British Artillery. They’re brainy men languishing under an effete system which, when you take good holt of it, is England—just all England. ‘Times I’d feel I was talking with real live citizens, and times I’d feel I’d struck the Beef Eaters in the Tower. “How? Well, this way. I was telling my Captain Mankeltow what Van Zyl had said about the British being all Chamberlains when the old man saw him back from hospital four days ahead of time. “‘Oh, damn it all!’ he says, as serious as the Supreme Court. ‘It’s too bad,’ he says. ‘Johanna must have misunderstood me, or else I’ve got the wrong Dutch word for these blarsted days of the week. I told Johanna I’d be out on Friday. The woman’s a fool. Oah, da-am it all!’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t have sold old Van Zyl a pup like that,’ he says. ‘I’ll hunt him up and apologise.’ “He must have fixed it all right, for when we sailed over to the General’s dinner my Captain had Van Zyl about half-full of sherry and bitters, as happy as a clam. The boys all called him Adrian, and treated him like their prodigal father. He’d been hit on the collarbone by a wad of shrapnel, and his arm was tied up.