He linked his arm in that of the silent onlooker, and drew him into the little hut of rough-hewn timber which was dignified by the name, printed in white letters over the door, of "Officers' Quarters."
"What do you think of them?" he demanded, as they entered. "Aren't they soldiers? Aren't they men?"
"I think, Duncannon," the other answered slowly, "that you have worked wonders."
"Ah, you'll tell the Chief so? Won't he be astounded? He swore I should never do it; declared they'd knife me if I tried to hammer any discipline into them. Much he knows about it! Good old Chief!"
He laughed boyishly, and again wiped his hot face.
"On my soul, Monty, it's been no picnic," he declared. "But I'd have sacrificed five years' pay, and my step as well, gladly—gladly—sooner than have missed it. Here you are, old boy! Drink! Drink to the latest auxiliary force in the British Empire! Damn' thirsty climate, this."
He tossed his helmet aside, and sat down on the edge of the table—a lithe, spare figure, brimming with active strength.
"I've literally coaxed those chaps into shape," he declared. "Oh, yes, I've bullied 'em too—cursed 'em right and left; but they never turned a hair—knew it was all for their good, and took it lying down. I've taught 'em to wash too, you know. That was the hardest job of all. I knocked one great brute all round the parade-ground one day, just to show I was in earnest. He went off afterwards, and blubbed like a baby. But in the evening I found him squatting outside, quite naked, and as clean as a whistle. To quote the newspapers, I was profoundly touched. But I didn't show it, you bet. I whacked him on the shoulder, and told him to be a man."
He broke off to laugh at the reminiscence; and Montague Herne gravely set down his glass, and turned his chair with its back to the sunlight.
"Do you know you've been here eighteen months?" he said.