The engineer, a small, compact man with a pointed red beard, had made as though he would ride past their camp without word or halt. Now he swerved, and easing his pony down to a canter, he headed her towards them.
“For God’s sake, a drink!” he croaked. “My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.”
Mortimer ran with the water-bottle, Scott with the whisky-flask, and Anerley with the tin pannikin. The engineer drank until his breath failed him.
“Well, I must be off,” said he, striking the drops from his red moustache.
“Any news?”
“A hitch in the railway construction. I must see the general. It’s the devil not having a telegraph.”
“Anything we can report?” Out came three notebooks.
“I’ll tell you after I’ve seen the general.”
“Any dervishes?”
“The usual shaves. Hud-up, Jinny! Good-bye!”