“Well, I don’t think I should be guilty of newspaper-man-slaughter. That I regard as a distinct breach of professional etiquette. But if any outsider comes between a highly charged correspondent and an electric wire, he does it at his peril. My dear Anerley, I tell you frankly that if you are going to handicap yourself with scruple you may just as well be in Fleet Street as in the Soudan. Our life is irregular. Our work has never been systematised. No doubt it will be some day, but the time is not yet. Do what you can and how you can, and be first on the wires; that’s my advice to you; and also, that when next you come upon a campaign you bring with you the best horse that money can buy. Mortimer may beat me or I may beat Mortimer, but at least we know that between us we have the fastest ponies in the country. We have neglected no chance.”
“I am not so certain of that,” said Mortimer, slowly. “You are aware, of course, that though a horse beats a camel on twenty miles, a camel beats a horse on thirty.”
“What, one of those camels?” cried Anerley in astonishment. The two seniors burst out laughing.
“No, no, the real high-bred trotter—the kind of beast the dervishes ride when they make their lightning raids.”
“Faster than a galloping horse?”
“Well, it tires a horse down. It goes the same gait all the way, and it wants neither halt nor drink, and it takes rough ground much better than a horse. They used to have long distance races at Halfa, and the camel always won at thirty.”
“Still, we need not reproach ourselves, Scott, for we are not very likely to have to carry a thirty-mile message. They will have the field telegraph next week.”
“Quite so. But at the present moment—”
“I know, my dear chap; but there is no motion of urgency before the house. Load baggles at five o’clock; so you have just three hours clear. Any sign of the evening pennies?”
Mortimer swept the northern horizon with his binoculars. “Not in sight yet.”