“Nowhere, unless we got wind and scooted in time. But that’s just the difficulty.”
“Phew! But don’t you take any precaution?”
“Not any. We take our chance instead. Chance is the name of a very great god up-country, as you’ll find out if you stop out here long.”
“Well, it would be a jolly good job if we did have a war,” rejoined Ancram airily. “Give us lots of fun. I should enjoy it.”
Peters looked quickly up.
“Fun! Enjoy it!” he repeated. “D’you hear that, Lamont? Wonder how much fun he’d have voted it—how much he’d have enjoyed it—if he’d been along with us on the retreat from the Shangani.”
“Oh, damn the retreat from the Shangani!” burst forth Lamont. “Ain’t you sick of that sick old yarn yet, Peters? Because I am.”
Ancram stared. There seemed nothing to warrant the ill-tempered outburst—unless— Ah, that was it. Lamont had hoisted the white feather in some way while on the expedition referred to, and of course was shy of hearing it mentioned. But, strangely enough, Peters didn’t seem to resent the tone or the brusque interruption. On the contrary he inclined to the apologetic.
“Oh, keep your hair on, Lamont,” he answered deprecatingly. “You know, Ancram, I shouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t been for—”
“Will you have another whisky-and-selz, Ancram, or will you try some black tea?” interrupted Lamont, speaking quickly. “Can’t offer you any milk with it because of the drought, except tinned, and that makes it entirely beastly.”