"Ask Sanders (God bless him!). Ask Ham. Ask——" he was going on enthusiastically.
"Are you going to camp here, or are you coming in?" she challenged.
Bones gathered up his belongings, never ceasing to talk.
"Fellers like me, dear young friend, make the Empire—paint the whole bally thing red, white an' blue—'unhonoured an' unsung, until the curtain's rung, the boys that made the Empire and the Navy.'"
"Bones, you promised you wouldn't sing," she said reproachfully; "and, besides, you're not in the navy."
"That doesn't affect the argument," protested Bones, and was rapidly shedding his equipment in preparation for another discourse, when she walked on towards Sanders who had come across the square to meet them.
Bones made a dive at the articles he had dropped, and came prancing (no other word describes his erratic run) up to Sanders.
"I've just been telling Miss Hamilton, sir and Excellency, that nobody can find things that old Bones—you'll remember, sir, the episode of your lost pyjama legs. Who found 'em?"
"You did," said Sanders; "they were sent home in your washing. Talking about finding things, read this."
He handed a telegraph form to the young man, and Bones, peering into the message until his nose almost touched the paper, read—