‘Tucker, sir. And who the devil are you?’
Let me describe what the Major saw: A man wasted by starvation to skin and bone, blackened, almost, by months of exposure to scorching suns; clad in the shreds of what had once been a shirt, torn by every kind of convict labour, stained by mud and the sweat and sores of mules; the rags of a shooting coat to match; no head covering; hands festering with sores, and which for weeks had not touched water—if they could avoid it. Such an object, in short, as the genius of a Phil May could alone have depicted as the most repulsive object he could imagine.
‘Who the devil are you?’
‘An English gentleman, sir, travelling for pleasure.’
He smiled. ‘You look more like a wild beast.’
‘I am quite tame, sir, I assure you—could even eat out of your hand if I had a chance.’
‘Is your name Coke?’
‘Yes,’ was my amazed reply.
‘Then come with me—I will show you something that may surprise you.’
I followed him to a neighbouring tent. He drew aside the flap of it, and there on his blanket lay Fred Calthorpe, snoring in perfect bliss.