In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading their newspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder of the two turned over a sheet.
"I see Osman Digna's back at Suakin," said he. "There's likely to be some fighting."
"Oh," said the other, "he will not do much harm." And he laid down his paper. The quiet English country-side vanished from before his eyes. He saw only the white city by the Red Sea shimmering in the heat, the brown plains about it with their tangle of halfa grass, and in the distance the hills towards Khor Gwob.
"A stuffy place Suakin, eh, Sutch?" said General Feversham.
"Appallingly stuffy. I heard of an officer who went down on parade at six o'clock of the morning there, sunstruck in the temples right through a regulation helmet. Yes, a town of dank heat! But I was glad to be there—very glad," he said with some feeling.
"Yes," said Feversham, briskly; "ibex, eh?"
"No," replied Sutch. "All the ibex had been shot off by the English garrison for miles round."
"No? Something to do, then. That's it?"
"Yes, that's it, Feversham. Something to do."
And both men busied themselves again over their papers. But in a little while a footman brought to each a small pile of letters. General Feversham ran over his envelopes with a quick eye, selected one letter, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He took a pair of spectacles from a case and placed them upon his nose.