“This is an old friend of yours, then, Denham?” continued the Colonel.
“Oh yes,” replied the Lieutenant. “His father, Mr Moray, was a most kindly host to me during a long shooting expedition, and I am very glad to have his son with us. I hope, sir, you will place him in the same troop as I am.”
“Certainly,” said the Colonel, who then turned to me in a frank, bluff way, and held out his hand.
“Glad to have you with us, Mr Moray,” he said; “and I beg your pardon for being so rough with you. Your appearance was a bit suspicious, though. But what about this black fellow?”
“He is my servant, sir,” I replied.
“Humph! But we can’t allow privates in this corps to bring their servants. It is not a picnic nor a shooting expedition.”
Some one who heard these words cried “Oh!” loudly.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, smiling; “it is. I should have said this is not a hunting expedition. We all have to rough it.”
“I beg pardon, Colonel,” said Lieutenant Denham, giving me a quick look. “Private Moray meant to say the black had been the servant at his home. I had forgotten the man. I remember him now. He was a good hunter and manager of the bullock-wagon we took up the country.”
“Yes, sir,” I said eagerly; “and most useful in all ways.”