Helmets, belts, tunics, shirts were
piled into the corner, until at length we stood in our underclothes,
laughing and unashamed. After that we got on famously, that Teuton
and we, and three days later, when he swarmed aboard his mule and
left home (in pyjamas this time) it was with real regret we waved him
farewell.
But not for long. Within a month we were surprised by a hail from the
bush, and there was Otto, mule, pyjamas and all.
"Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo!" he carolled. "'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion!
Durn out ze guard!" He roared with laughter, fell off his palfrey and
bawled for his batman, who ambled up balancing a square box on his
woolly pate.
His mother in Munich had sent him a case of Lion Brew, Otto explained,
so he had brought it along.
We wassailed deep into that night and out the other side, and we liked
our Otto more than ever. We had plenty in common, the same loneliness,
fevers, climate, and niggers to wrestle with; moreover he had been
in England, and liked it; he smoked a pipe; he washed.
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