The Dash for Khartoum: A Tale of the Nile Expedition

by G. A. Henty

While this conversation had been going on, Rupert Clinton and his two old school-fellows were sitting on the ground in the tent which Easton shared with another of General Stewart's aides-de-camp.

"The scene has changed," Easton said as he handed them each a tumbler of weak rum and water, "otherwise one might imagine that we were in my study at River-Smith's, and that Skinner was about to lay down the law about the next football match."

"Ah! if we had but Edgar here!" Rupert sighed.

"I did not like to ask whether you had found him, Clinton; but I guessed you had not by your keeping silence."

"No, we have heard nothing of him beyond the fact that we have occasionally a letter saying that he is well and comfortable. They were all posted in London, but I still believe that he is in the army. My father is as convinced as ever that the statement of that woman I told you of was a false one, and that Edgar is just as likely to be his son as I am. I know I would gladly give up my share of the heirship to find him. However, unless I run against him by pure chance I am not likely to do that. We still put in advertisements occasionally, but my people at home are as convinced as I am that we shall not hear from him until he has made his way in some line or other, and he is in an independent position."

"He always was a sticker," Skinner said, "and if he took a thing in hand would carry it through. You remember his rush in our last match with Green's, how he carried the ball right down through them all. I should not worry about it, Clinton; it will all come right in time. He will turn up some day or other; and when he finds that matters are just as they were before, and that your people believe him to be just as likely to be their son as you are, he will fall into his old place again—at least that is my opinion of it."

"Yes, that is what I hope and believe," Rupert said. "Well, Easton, how do you like the Guards, and how do you like campaigning? I see that you have given up white shirts, like the rest of us. I rather expected that if we did meet I should find that, in some miraculous way, you still contrived to get up immaculately."

Easton laughed. "No, I left my last white shirt at Cairo, Clinton. I consulted my soldier-servant about it. He was ready to guarantee the washing, but he did not see his way to starching and ironing; so I had to give them up and take to flannels. They were awful at first, and irritated my skin until they brought on prickly heat, and I was almost out of my mind for a few days. However, I have got over it now. What made you go into the Marines, Skinner?"

"Well, just before the exam, came off an uncle of mine, who is a great friend of the first lord, wrote to say that he could get me a commission. Well, in the first place I did not feel very sure of passing for the line; in the second place I had a liking for the sea, and in the third place, as my governor's living is not a very large one and I have a lot of sisters, and I thought I had had more than my share already in being sent to Cheltenham—and one can live a good deal cheaper in the Marines than in the line—I concluded the best thing I could do was to accept the offer; and I have not been sorry that I did it. It was awful luck my coming out in the Naval Brigade here; it was just a fluke. The man who was going was chucked off a horse and broke his arm the day before the brigade sailed from Suakim, and I was sent up in his place. Well, what is the last news, Clinton? You ought to know, as you are on the staff."

"They don't intrust aides-de-camp with their secrets," Rupert replied; "but I think it likely there will be a move in a day or two, and that the Camel Corps will push across to Metemmeh and wait there till the boats get round."