“Thankye, Ben Eddin. You always were a pleasant gentleman that it was a treat to have staying at Wimpole Street. Wimpole Street!—Ha, ha, ha!” said Sam, laughing softly. “My word! how comic it does seem. What would they say in Wimpole Street if they could—”
Sam stopped short, and a look of pain crossed his face.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he whispered. “Well, Ben Eddin,” he said aloud. “Mr Landon said I was never to whisper, and I won’t do it again. But I wanted to say I was sorry. It isn’t comic, or queer, or anything. I know—I know it’s all terrible real, and I’m going to try and help like a man through it all. I was a fool and a hidiot to speak as I did—and you’ll forgive me, Ben Eddin? Thankye.”
For Frank’s hand rested lightly on the man’s shoulder, and for a few minutes there was silence in the tent. Then Sam’s face brightened, and he said eagerly—
“I’ve had two goes on the camel, Ben, in these things, and somehow it seemed to me as if the grumbling beast took to me more in them. He went easier. I shall do it: I know I shall. I didn’t feel half so much like pitching on to my nose as I did before. It’s rum work, though, all the same.”
Chapter Fourteen.
Frank’s First Milestone.
It was just before daybreak on the fifth morning that everyone in the cluster of tents was astir. Much had been done over night to advance the preparations, so that nothing remained but the loading up of the camels.