Well groomed; in those days when our bed was a mud-puddle and our
canopy the stars, when the music which lulled us to sleep was the hum
of the Mauser bullets and the vicious popping of the Remingtons, when
water to drink had to be brought at the peril of life for every
mouthful, Kane turned up every morning clean-shaved and neatly
groomed, shoes duly polished, neat khaki, fitting like a glove and
brushed to perfection, nails polished, and hair parted as nicely as if
he were dressed by his valet in his New York apartments. How did he do
it? We never knew. He kept no servant; he took his regular turn in the
ditches, in the mud, or torrid sun, or smothering rain. No night alarm
came that did not find Kane first to spring to the trench--and yet he
did it, somehow. The courteous phrases of politest speech fell ever
from his ready lips, as easily as they would have done in the
_boudoir_ of any belle in the metropolis. The shrieking of a shell or
tingling hiss of a sharpshooter's close-aimed bullet never came so
near as to interrupt whatever polished expression of thanks, regret,
or comment he might be uttering. And it was the real thing, too. The
gentle heart was there.
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