On my way back I
loaded both rifles as quick as I could and dropped every noo an' again
to let them hae it, and I was carefu' not to waste a damn shot; every
bullet told."
The speaker was Scotty Henderson, late of the Seaforth Highlanders, as
he informed us, and he was relating his experiences during the world
memorable retreat at Mons, when Britain's little regular army,
denominated by His Majesty, Wilhelm II, "The contemptible little English
army," was practically wiped out.
In the cookhouse we listened, open-mouthed, to the wonderful exploits of
this Scotch fighting man. "Were you wounded?" asked Lawrence. "Aye,
laddie, you're damned right I was," and he rolled up his trouser leg and
exhibited a large, broad scar on the inside of his right leg. "There's
where I got it."
"That's a funny looking wound,--looks like a burn," said Lawrence.
"You're damned right it's a burn," said Scotty, "it was the shell that
burned me as it grazed my leg."
The probable reason, I thought, why the shell could graze the inside of
one of his legs without injury to the other was because the fighter was
blessed with a pair of bow-legs that couldn't have stopped the
proverbial pig in the proverbial alley.
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