With his toes strangely pointed out, he leads her away from the scene of
labour and language, disappearing amidst the hovels of the adjacent
village. Often I never see him or obtain news of him till next morning,
when he produces Sapphira polished like a silk hat and every scrap of metal
about her sparkling. Occasionally I have tracked him to the shelter where
he secretes and waits upon Sapphira, always to find that he has discovered
and occupied the best stable in the village. The grooms of my
brother-officers never learn that Steggles' vacuous expression is the
disguise of an intellect subtle, discriminating and alert, so they never
trouble to endeavour to forestall him. To find Sapphira is to find
Steggles, as he always likes to spread his blanket where she could tread on
him if she wanted anything during the night.

From time to time he chooses the occasion of a night's halt on the march to
indulge in a bilious attack; but he has no other vice except an inveterate
reluctance to leave off polishing my boots when I mount. No matter how
Sapphira may prance and back and sidle, he follows her round and round with
a remnant of a shirt, rubbing mud-spots off my boots in the stirrup. It is
quite useless to bellow, "That will do, Steggles!"--his ideal is the
unattainable perfection, and he persists. I have to escape by giving
Sapphira the spur at the risk of knocking Steggles into the mud, or be late
in turning out.

He never gives anything, even his own performances, unqualified praise; in
fact it is extremely hard to win from him any encomium higher than "It's
not too bad." Perhaps there is Scotch blood in his veins.

I very much want to recommend him for some decoration, but the organization
likely to appreciate the most gallant of his deeds has not yet been
formed--the S.P.G.P., or Society for the Preservation of Government