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.
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.
Kipling - Poems
"
"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you daren't 'it
a man on 'is legs. Let go o' Jerry Blazes an' come out o' that with your
fistes. Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloomin' dog-shooter! "
"I dare. "
"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie. See
there! " Slane kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the peril of his
life. "Come on, now! "
The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the Corporal in
his white clothes offered a perfect mark.
"Don't misname me," shouted Simmons, firing as he spoke. The shot
missed, and the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle down and
rushed at Slane from the protection of the well. 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. 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 idolized their Major, and his
reappearance on parade brought about a scene nowhere provided for in the
Army Regulations.
Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners would
have made him drunk thrice a day for at least a fortnight.
"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you daren't 'it
a man on 'is legs. Let go o' Jerry Blazes an' come out o' that with your
fistes. Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloomin' dog-shooter! "
"I dare. "
"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie. See
there! " Slane kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the peril of his
life. "Come on, now! "
The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the Corporal in
his white clothes offered a perfect mark.
"Don't misname me," shouted Simmons, firing as he spoke. The shot
missed, and the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle down and
rushed at Slane from the protection of the well. 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. 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 idolized their Major, and his
reappearance on parade brought about a scene nowhere provided for in the
Army Regulations.
Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners would
have made him drunk thrice a day for at least a fortnight.
