he thought in how many different ways he would slay Losson. Sometimes
he would picture himself trampling the life out of the man, with heavy
ammunition-boots, and at others smashing in his face with the butt,
and at others jumping on his shoulders and dragging the head back till
the neckbone cracked. Then his mouth would feel hot and fevered, and
he would reach out for another sup of the beer in the pannikin.

But the fancy that came to him most frequently and stayed with him
longest was one connected with the great roll of fat under Lesson's
right ear. He noticed it first on a moonlight night, and thereafter
it was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of fat. A man
could get his hand upon it and tear away one side of the neck; or he
could place the muzzle of a rifle on it and blow away all the head in
a flash. Losson had no right to be sleek and contented and well-to-do,
when he, Simmons, was the butt of the room. Some day, perhaps, he would
show those who laughed at the 'Simmons, ye _so-oor_' joke, that he was
as good as the rest, and held a man's life in the crook of his
forefinger. When Losson snored, Simmons hated him more bitterly than
ever. Why should Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay awake
hour after hour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver
pain gnawing into his right side and his head throbbing and aching
after Canteen? He thought over this for many many nights, and the world
became unprofitable to him. He even blunted his naturally fine appetite
with beer and tobacco; and all the while the parrot talked at and made
a mock of him.

The heat continued and the tempers wore away more quickly than before.
A Sergeant's wife died of heat-apoplexy in the night, and the rumour
ran abroad that it was cholera. Men rejoiced openly, hoping that it
would spread and send them into camp. But that was a false alarm.