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 to 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
on. 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. He was removed, and nursed and
petted into convalescence, while the Battery discussed the wisdom
of capturing Simmons and blowing him from a gun. They idolised
their Major, and his reappearance on parade brought about a scene