Bones puckered his brows.
"Deep-sea fishin', dear old officer and comrade," he repeated, "an' after dinner a little game of tiddly-winks—Bones v. jolly old Hamilton's sister, for the championship of the River an' the Sanders Cup."
Hamilton breathed deeply, but was patient.
"Your King and your country," he said, "pay you seven and eightpence per diem——"
"Oh," said Bones, a light dawning, "you mean work?"
"Strange, is it not," mused Hamilton, "that we should consider——Hullo!"
They followed the direction of his eyes.
A white bird was circling groggily above the plantation, as though uncertain where to alight. There was weariness in the beat of its wings, in the irregularity of its flight. Bones leapt over the rail of the verandah and ran towards the square. He slowed down as he came to a place beneath the bird, and whistled softly.
Bones's whistle was a thing of remarkable sweetness—it was his one accomplishment, according to Hamilton, and had neither tune nor rhyme. It was a succession of trills, rising and falling, and presently, after two hesitating swoops, the bird rested on his outstretched hand. He came back to the verandah and handed the pigeon to Sanders.
The Commissioner lifted the bird and with gentle fingers removed the slip of thin paper fastened to its leg by a rubber band.