“Spots?”
“Yes; this confounded, hot, damp climate—specks of mildew on my best uniform. I say: you look capital, Dallas,” continued the Major, running his eye over the Resident’s official dress. “That’s the best of you young fellows; you only want a wash and a brush up, and you are all right. Get to my age, sir, and—”
“Oh, don’t talk like that, Major. I was not thinking about uniforms.”
“Eh, weren’t you? I was. I don’t mean about myself, but look at my lads. Aren’t they splendid, in spite of all the knocking about and wear? But what’s the matter? Not well?”
“No, sir; I am not well.”
“Poor old chap! There’s plenty of time; toddle up to the bungalow. Old Morley will give you a pick-me-up, and set you right in no time.”
“I have been there, sir.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said the Major, with a chuckle.
“For I am very anxious about the ladies there, and the other women we have in our charge, and I feel more than ever that we have been guilty of a great error of judgment.”
“Eh? What about?”