Losson had no right to be sleek and
contented and well-to-do, when he, Simmons, was the butt of the
room, Some day, perhaps, he would show those who laughed at the
"Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was as good as the rest, and
held a man's life in the crook of his forefinger. When Losson
snored, Simmons hated him more bitterly than ever. Why should
Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay awake hour
after hour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver pain
gnawing into his right side and his head throbbing and aching after
Canteen? He thought over this for many nights, and the world
became unprofitable to him. He even blunted his naturally fine
appetite with beer and tobacco; and all the while the parrot talked
at and made a mock of him.
The heat continued and the tempers wore away more quickly than
before. A Sergeant's wife died of heat--apoplexy in the night, and
the rumor ran abroad that it was cholera. Men rejoiced openly,
hoping that it would spread and send them into camp. But that
was a false alarm.
It was late on a Tuesday evening, and the men were waiting in the
deep double verandas for "Last Posts," when Simmons went to the
box at the foot of his bed, took aut his pipe, and slammed the lid
down with a bang that echoed through the deserted barrack like the
crack of a rifle.
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