Badcock here."
"What subject?"
"Missiles, sir. It appears that, when his blood is up, Mr. Badcock
finds himself absolutely careless of missiles. He declares that,
with a sense of smell as acute as most men's, he was unaware to-day
of having been struck with a rotten egg until I, at ten paces'
distance, drew his attention to it. Now, that is a degree of
courage--insensibility--call it what you will--to which I make no
pretence. The cut and thrust, gentlemen, the couched lance, even,
within limits, the battering ram, would have, I feel confident,
comparatively few terrors for me. But missiles I abominate.
Drawing, as I am bound to do, my anticipations of the tented field
from experience gathered--I say it literally, gathered--before the
footlights, I confess to some sympathy with the gentleman who assured
Harry Percy that but for these vile guns he would himself have been a
soldier. You will not misunderstand me. I believe on my faith that
as a military man I was born out of my time. The scythed chariots of
Boadicea, for instance, must have been damned inconvenient; yet I can
conceive myself jumping 'em.
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