Within
striking distance, he kicked savagely at Slane's stomach, but the
weedy Corporal knew something of Simmons's weakness, and
knew, too, the deadly guard for that kick. Bowing forward and
drawing up his right leg till the heel of the right foot was set some
three inches above the inside of the left knee-cap, he met the blow
standing on one leg--exactly as Gonds stand when they
meditate--and ready for the fall that would follow. There was an
oath, the Corporal fell over his own left as shinbone met shinbone,
and the Private collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above the
ankle.
"'Pity you don't know that guard, Sim," said Slane, spitting out the
dust as he rose. Then raising his voice-- "Come an' take him orf.
I've bruk 'is leg." This was not strictly true, for the Private had
accomplished his own downfall, since it is the special merit of that
leg-guard that the harder the kick the greater the kicker's
discomfiture.
Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung over him with ostentatious
anxiety, while Simmons, weeping with pain, was carried away. "
'Ope you ain't 'urt badly, Sir," said Slane. The Major had fainted,
and there was an ugly, ragged hole through the top of his arm.
Slane knelt down and murmured. "S'elp me, I believe 'e's dead.
Well, if that ain't my blooming luck all over!"
But the Major was destined to lead his Battery afield for many a
long day with unshaken nerve.
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