“Oh well, I can’t afford to offer resistance to the police, so here goes.”
The bar was crowded, mostly with police. Denham’s arrival was hailed with a shout of acclamation, and he and his bride were duly toasted with a good-fellowship which, if a bit noisy, was still genuinely sincere. These fine fellows were all due to start for the seat of hostilities again that evening, but, if some of them were a bit “wobbly” now, they would be all right, and fit, and hard as ever, when the time came, never fear.
From that lively scene to the quiet of the hospital was a strange contrast. Denham slipped away opportunely and soon, for he had a visit to make.
“How’s Stride to-day, doctor?” meeting the District surgeon at the entrance.
“Going on slowly, but well. Don’t excite him, will you?”
“No; I think he’d like to say good-bye. What do you think?”
“As long as he doesn’t get excited,” was the rather dubious answer. “Come along.”
The hospital at Ezulwini was rather full just then with victims of the rebellion, still in full swing, and the nurses were busy morning, noon and night. Everything about the place was so bright and cheerful that the casual visitor almost wanted to be an inmate for a time. Even the operating-room looked inviting, and more suggestive of cool drinks than of bloodshed. Not here was it, however, that they were to find Harry Stride.
“Well, Stride, old chap, how are you getting on?” said Denham, taking the sick man’s listless hand.
“Oh, I don’t know; they say I’ll pull through, but I’m taking a darn long time about it. And I wanted to go and pump some more lead into those swine, and it’ll be all over while I’m lying here.”