“Doesn’t it make you think of being in the troop once more?”
“No,” I said bluntly; “and I hope we shall never again ride knee to knee to cut down men.”
“But if the need should arise,” he shouted, “you would volunteer again—yes, and you too, Bob?”
“Of course,” cried my brother, flushing; “and so would Val.”
“You hear that, Val?” said Denham. “Don’t say you wouldn’t come and help?”
“How can I?” was my reply. “This is sandy Africa, with savages who might rise at any time; but I am English born, with a touch of Scottish blood, I believe.”
“I’ve got a dash of Irish in mine,” said Denham. “I say, shall we ever see Moriarty again?”
“I hope not,” I answered, turning red up to my hair.
“I don’t want to see him now,” Denham said. “But answer my question, Val. Will you volunteer again if a bad time comes!”
“So long as you mount a horse, and want me,” I answered.