"H'm! Don't know that I'll go at all. Running your poor father off his legs again! Very short notice, too. Just like Burnaby; just as young as ever he was, spite of the K.C.B.--What are you doing, Lilian, waggling your hand about so frantically at the window?"
"Just calling the telegraph man, Father. You didn't give him a reply."
"That's true; well, we'll go, begad. Here's a form. Write it for me. 'Yes, tickets for two via Marseilles and Brindisi.' That's right. Another one to Dr. O'Brien. 'Hurray! always said so.' Now, we must go by the 6.15 up-train to-night, so get your packing done. And for pity's sake don't get excited; try to keep as cool as I am. And so that fine young fellow's found, eh? Where, and how, and when, and what's he been doing? Gad, I want to know all about it. Think we'll catch the 4.20, Lilian; the packing will do itself if only you keep cool."
Mr. Barkworth showed his wonderful coolness by setting everybody in a fluster for the rest of the day. The whole household was called upon to assist him in his preparations. He had a genius for mislaying his things, and then accused the first person he came across of deliberately putting them out of their places; and when the gardener had been called in to find his master's newest suit of pyjamas, and the cook to rout out the straps of his hold-all, everybody was quite ready to see the back of the fussy old gentleman. Lilian got him safely away in the nick of time to catch the 6.15, and after spending the night at Claridge's, they sought out Tom's uncle, and arranged to meet him at Charing Cross for the night French mail.
It was Major Burnaby no longer. His services had been recognized by promotion to a lieutenant-colonelcy, an honour crowned by the conferment of a Knight Commandership of the Bath. Mr. Barkworth was vastly proud of the fame of Sir John Burnaby, K.C.B., and regarded his honours as a remarkable testimony to his own foresight and discrimination. All the way down to Dover he plied his friend with questions, comments, and suggestions, though Sir John explained more than once that he knew nothing beyond the bare fact that Tom was at last found. Ever since the news of his disappearance reached England, Mr. Barkworth had at intervals fired off cable messages at Dr. O'Brien in Kisumu, asking for information, or upbraiding him for not displaying greater activity in the search; and he was now firmly convinced that the recovery of the long-lost Tom was in great part due to his indefatigable enquiries.
On the voyage out he lost no opportunity of telling the whole story, and magnified Tom's achievements (of which, since the fight by the bridge, he, of course, knew nothing), until the young Englishman appeared a new Cincinnatus, the saviour of his country. He became more and more fidgety as he drew nearer to the journey's end.
"I never in my life so took to a young fellow, never," he would say, to excuse his excitement; "if he had been my own son I couldn't have felt it more."
When the boat steamed slowly into the harbour at Mombasa, Mr. Barkworth was the first of the passengers to cross the gangway.
"Where's Tom?" he cried, without waiting to greet Major Lister, who, like his former chief, had won a step in rank. "Why isn't he here to meet us?"
"Impossible, sir," said Lister laconically. "How d'e do, Sir John?"