as you have swallowed the coffee he'll pour into your mug from his jug, hop out and sweep under your bed. The room-orderly has got to sweep out the room and be on parade as soon as the rest, and it's impossible unless everybody sweeps under his own bed and leaves the orderly to do the rest."
"What about food?" asked the other, who had the healthy appetite of his years and health.
"Oh—plain and sufficient," was the answer. "Good soup and bread; hard biscuit twice a week; and wine every other day—monotonous of course. Meals at eleven o'clock and five o'clock only. … By the way unless your feet are fairly tough, you'd better wear chaussettes russes until they harden—strips of greasy linen bound round, you know. The skin will soon toughen if you pour bapédi, or any other strong spirit into your boots, and you can tallow your feet before a long march. Having no socks will seem funny at first, but in time you come to hate the idea of them. Much less cleanly really, and the cause of all blisters."
Rupert looked doubtful, and thought of his silk-sock bills. Even as a trooper he had always kept one silk pair to put on after the bath which followed a long march. (There are few things so refreshing as the vigorous brushing of one's hair and the putting of silk socks on to bathed feet after a heavy day.)
"Good night, and Good Luck in the Legion," added John Bull as he lay down.
"Good night—and thanks awfully, sir, for your kindness," replied Rupert, and vainly endeavoured to compose himself to sleep on his bed which consisted of a straw-stuffed mattress, a straw-stuffed pillow, and two thin raspy blankets. …
