There was a churning below. The Amenhotep was moving from the bank.
“She’s going—the boat’s going,” said the Lost One, trembling to his feet.
“Sit down,” said Dicky, and gripped him by the arm. “Where are you taking me?” asked Heatherby, a strange, excited look in his face.
“Up the river.”
He seemed to read Dicky’s thoughts—the clairvoyance of an overwrought mind: “To—to Assouan?” The voice had a curious far-away sound.
“You shall go beyond Assouan,” said Dicky. “To—to Gordon?” Heatherby’s voice was husky and indistinct.
“Yes, here’s Fielding; he’ll give you the tip. Sit down.” Dicky gently forced him down into a chair. Six months later, a letter came to Dicky from an Egyptian officer, saying that Heatherby of the Buffs had died gallantly fighting in a sortie sent by Gordon into the desert.
“He had a lot of luck,” mused Dicky as he read. “They don’t end that way as a rule.”
Then he went to Fielding, humming a certain stave from one of Watts’s hymns.