Mounting the Cape cart, he drove off, and a few hours afterwards was in the train jolting on his way north. In the novel rôle of transport officer, however, he proved himself even more unsatisfactory than in that of A.D.C.; indeed, thanks to him, the column he served well-nigh starved, and this fact, in the form of a peculiarly damaging report from its leader, having been brought to the notice of the authorities, Hector was relieved of his duties, and relegated to a stool in a commissariat office.
With the decline of his fortunes, his ineptitude seemed to increase. A further and even more damaging report having been received, Hector again started on his travels, and this time for the last and lowest stage of all—a blockhouse on the lines of communication. The months passed, the War slowly dragged to its close, but no further notice from authority did Graeme receive; and with the flitting of the days his sense of grievance and injustice increased, till his whole mind was consumed with bitterness and hatred of his kind.
At times he even meditated, should the chance occur, the throwing in of his lot with the enemy, and taking what revenge he could on his persecutors; but, fortunately for him, the chance did not occur—no enemy showing themselves within a hundred miles of his dreary abode. Day after day he sat staring moodily out on the bare brown hills and monotonous stretch of scrub-clad veldt, praying for the enemy to appear; but in vain, and at last this hope died. Another scheme took its place in his mind, that of leaving the army, once the War was over, and joining that of some other nation, his eventual aim being the leading of that army against his own country-men.
It would be a delight, indeed, he thought, to show to those who now ignored him what manner of man it was they had dared so to treat. How he would crush them, gloat over them, remind them of the despised transport officer and commissariat clerk; and perhaps, if fortune were kind, Bradford might be in command against him, Bradford brought in a prisoner before him. He wouldn't hurt the creature, oh no, he would be rather nice to him, and let him go, asking as a favour that he should continue to lead the opposing forces, so as to make his task the easier.
How mad they would all be, traitor they would call him, and so he would be, and glory in it and their hatred. Even Lucy would turn from him; no, she wouldn't, though. Lucy would be heartbroken, but never turn; and after all she would have had her wish, for she wanted him to retire. She was as bitter as he about the injustice he had received. He took from his pocket her last letter, and read it again, and as he did so his face assumed the puzzled expression it always wore on the perusal of her letters. "Again no mention of the child," he muttered; "nothing but the postscript, 'Ruby, poor mite, is well enough.' Well, it's mail-day to-day, perhaps she will say more. There is the mail too," watching a small cloud of dust rapidly approaching along the sandy track. "Here, you," to the orderly, who had now reached the blockhouse, and was handing a bundle of papers and letters to the Sergeant, "bring mine out here. Hum! three; one I don't know, one from Lucy, and a London paper, addressed to me in her handwriting. I wonder what for, home news does not interest me at all."
Faintly curious, he stripped off the wrapper, and, unfolding the newspaper, ran his eye over the pages, till at length he found the marked paragraph he expected. For a moment he stood staring; then his face grew suddenly scarlet, and a shout of jubilation burst forth from his lips. Sergeant Newcome and the men, running out to ascertain the cause, beheld their erstwhile apathetic officer throw his helmet into the air, rush at it as it reached the ground, and dance upon the headpiece till it lay a mangled mass of khaki and cardboard. "Orderly," he shouted to the retreating figure of the postman, "come here, take this fiver, and order up beer from the commissariat, gallons of it; we'll make a night of it, Newcome, my friend, or rather you and the men shall, while I do sentry go."
"Sir?" said the astonished Sergeant, while the men stared vacantly at the transformed figure before them.
"Read that," shouted Hector, handing him the paper; "not there, you fool, oh, give it to me then, and listen." He read:
"'To be Brevet Lieut. Colonel.
"'Hector Archibald Graeme, Major'"—Hector's majority was but two months old—"'1st Lancers.'"