He returned to headquarters empty-handed and sat the centre of a chilling group—if we except Patricia Hamilton—and endeavoured, as so many successful advocates have done, to hide his short-comings behind a screen of rhetoric.
He came to the part of his narrative where Bosambo was taken ill without creating any notable sensation, save that Sanders's grey eyes narrowed a little and he paid greater heed to the rest of the story.
"There was poor old Bosambo knocked out, sir—ab-so-lutely done for—fortunately I did not lose my nerve. You know what I am, dear old officer, in moments of crisis?"
"I know," said Hamilton grimly, "something between a Welsh revivalist and a dancing dervish."
"Please go on, Bones," begged the girl, not the least interested of the audience.
"I dashed straight back to the Wiggle," said Bones breathlessly, "searched for my medicine chest—it wasn't there! Not so much as a mustard plaster—what was I to do, dear old Miss Hamilton?" he appealed dramatically.
"Don't tell him, Pat," begged Hamilton, "he's sure to guess it."
"What was I to do? I seized a bottle of brandy," said Bones with relish, "I dashed back to where Bosambo was lyin'. I dashed into the village, into his hut and got a glass——"
"Well, well!" said Sanders impatiently, "what happened after all this dashing?"
Bones spread out his hands.