With a soft thudding upon the sand, and a clatter among the stones the weary pony was off upon her journey once more.
“Nothing serious, I suppose?” said Mortimer, staring after him.
“Deuced serious,” cried Scott. “The ham and eggs are burned! No—it’s all right—saved, and done to a turn! Pull the box up, Anerley. Come on, Mortimer, stow that notebook! The fork is mightier than the pen just at present. What’s the matter with you, Anerley?”
“I was wondering whether what we have just seen was worth a telegram.”
“Well, it’s for the proprietors to say if it’s worth it. Sordid money considerations are not for us. We must wire about something just to justify our khaki coats and our putties.”
“But what is there to say?”
Mortimer’s long, austere face broke into a smile over the youngster’s innocence. “It’s not quite usual in our profession to give each other tips,” said he. “However, as my telegram is written, I’ve no objection to your reading it. You may be sure that I would not show it to you if it were of the slightest importance.”
Anerley took up the slip of paper and read:—
Merryweather obstacles stop journey confer general stop nature difficulties later stop rumours dervishes.
“This is very condensed,” said Anerley, with wrinkled brows.