Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion

by G. Hamilton-Browne

“Stop him! Arrest him!” cried his outraged worship, as Conway swung his horse round, and two policemen made a half-hearted attempt to do so, but were ridden over and dispersed.

“Whoop, gone away,” yelled Conway, as he emerged into the Free State road and burst through a squad of mounted police. “If you want to catch me try to.”

They wanted to catch him very badly, and tried very hard to do so, but the veld was close handy and, Lord bless you! they might as well have tried to rope a sunbeam as to round up Mad Conway once he had gained the open plains; so that after he had played with them until, I presume, he got thirsty, he just turned his horse’s head for the Free State and cantered across the frontier, leaving his baffled pursuers to ride their knocked-up horses back to the disgruntled beak. This escapade took place just before he joined the irregular forces who were carrying on a desultory sort of warfare with Sekukuni. It was while serving with this disorganised crowd that Conway mated with an ex-naval lieutenant as like himself in character as two peas are in appearance. Faith, they made a bonny half-section, for what one did not know in the way of devilment, the other could teach him. Well, it was just before the time when the aforesaid irregular forces were to be reorganised. Sir Garnet Wolseley was on his way up country, so were strong reinforcements, and the atmosphere was thick with shaves as to what was going to happen. Now, it was just at this moment this brace of beauties found themselves to be in a dilemma: they were both stonybroke. True, they were accustomed to be so, and as they had both been appointed to irregular corps about to be embodied, possessed smart uniforms and first-rate horses, they thought it would be a hard matter if they could not manage to raise a fortnight’s board and lodging of the best, together with the necessary liquid, in liberal quantities, bien entendu, from somewhere or other. Now half-a-day’s ride from where they were located was an up-country dorp, in which was a canteen of such pretensions that the owner, a leery old Scotsman, called it a hotel. He was, like many of his countrymen, exceedingly avaricious, and prided himself on his cuteness, making a brag that no one could impose upon him. For many years he had enjoyed the monopoly of such trade as passed through the little township, but latterly another individual had opened an opposition shop, which, as it was slightly more up-to-date, filled the old sinner with apprehension, and rage, especially as hard cash was very scarce in the Transvaal at that date. Well, it was this close-fisted old Boniface that our brace of worthies determined to victimise, although to anyone else an attempt to do so would have looked very hopeless indeed. Now mad Conway was so well known in the dorp, especially by the said Boniface, that it was utterly useless for him to try to obtain credit for a tot of dop, as the publican would sooner see the liquor on his shelves than trust anyone for a shilling. But at the same time he was well aware that Conway had held, and was likely again to hold, a fairly high position in military circles. The other partner, however, was a perfect stranger. So this was the way the two scamps worked the oracle.

One fine morning Conway cantered up to the old Scotsman’s hotel, into which he strode with a bustling, dutified air. “Swan,” quoth he, “Colonel ---- (mentioning the well-known name of one of Sir Garnet’s principal staff officers) will be here in a few minutes. He is riding in advance of the General, so as to make arrangements for the accommodation of Sir Garnet and his whole staff, who will be staying in this dorp for some considerable time. The Colonel was recommended to go to the new hotel, but I, who am acting as his guide, have persuaded him to try you first of all, to see if you can furnish the necessary requirements. Of course you will have to do your very best, furnish the best rooms, supply the very best food and liquor, and all that sort of thing, and the Colonel will require a private sitting-room, in which to carry on his correspondence, while he is awaiting the General’s arrival.”

Old Swan nosed what he thought was going to turn out to be a most profitable bit of business. He had heard of the enormous sums of money squandered by the Imperial Government during the late Zulu war, and his fingers fairly itched at the chance of being thrust into the plunder pot. In a moment he was all smiles and attention, even going so far as to promise to turn out, at a moment’s notice, all his usual guests and to reserve the whole of the house for the great man and his staff. Throwing open the door of his own cosy sitting-room, he inquired if Conway thought that would do until a better one could be provided, and also asked if he should be doing right to invite the Colonel to have a drink on his dismounting.

“Well,” said Conway, “I should hardly do that, as perhaps Colonel —— may be one of those rabid teetotallers who do not like to drink in public, but you had better place a bottle of whisky, one of brandy, yes, and perhaps one of gin, together with some soda-water, and a box of your very best cigars on that buffet, and if he should help himself you will then know whether he drinks or not. Ah, by Jove! here he comes.”

A fine stalwart figure, clothed in undress uniform, rode slowly across the big market square and, reining up at the front door, leisurely dismounted. Handing his horse over to the grinning Tottie hostler, he coolly scanned the front of the premises and the surroundings. Out rushed the obsequious host, more leisurely followed by the debonair but still respectful Conway.

“Ah, Conway,” drawled the new-comer, “so we have arrived at last, and this is the hotel you recommended, is it? Well, perhaps it will do, though I must confess I like the appearance of the other one better. Still, I have no doubt our worthy host here will do his best to make us all comfortable, especially as our stay here may be rather a long one. Let us step inside and see what accommodation he has to offer, as you know how particular Sir Garnet is.”

Enter the bandits, who are shown over the house by the palpitating innkeeper, whose ears at the illusion about the more attractive appearance of the rival house are aching as if struck by an acute pang of tic doloreux and he forthwith promises at once to carry out the most frivolous suggestions, and there were many of them, of the somewhat haughty and exacting S.O.

“And now you have shown me the house,” quoth the latter, “perhaps you will be good enough to show me my private sitting-room, in which I think, Conway, as I am somewhat fatigued by my long ride, we might indulge in a biscuit, and on this occasion, although I hardly ever take anything stronger than tea, I think I will venture, Mr Swan, on a glass of your best sherry or pontac; and by the way, Mr Swan, at two o’clock you will be good enough to let us have the best and most substantial lunch you can furnish at such a short notice. Ah, this will do very nicely”—as the deluded innkeeper threw open the door of his own snuggery and ushered his stonybroke guests inside. The room looked like a cosy miniature bar, for the the small buffet was loaded with bottles, plates of delicately cut sandwiches, biscuits, and a big box of extra-special prime cigars, while the canvas water-cooler was full of bottled ale and soda water.