"That's right, my boy," said the major heartily. "It's no good crying over spilt milk. I was young myself once; we all have to buy our experience, and 'pon my word I think you're getting yours pretty cheap after all."
He rose from his chair, and put his hand kindly on Tom's shoulder. "I'm going to turn in," he added; "have to be up at dawn. Call Saladin if you want anything. Good-night!"
During the next few days Tom almost forgot his disappointment, so much was he interested in watching the final preparations. There were boxes and bales everywhere. Empty kerosene cans were shipped on the launches, to be filled with water when the force began its land march. Boxes of ammunition, tin-lined biscuit-boxes of provisions, a tent or two for the officers, canvas bags and smaller cases for the medical stores, were carried on board on the backs of stalwart negroes, and all their friends and neighbours crowded around, gesticulating frantically in their excitement. It was all so novel that Tom had scarcely a minute to reflect on his hard luck; and, indeed, so far from sulking, he sought every opportunity of making himself useful, and was well pleased when he chanced to overhear his uncle one evening say to Dr. O'Brien:
"'Pon my word, Corney, I'm sorry we can't take the boy. I like his spirit. He's willing to turn his hand to anything, and has relieved me of quite a number of odd jobs during the past few days. But I don't see how we can possibly take him, and in any case he will be better at home."
The last day came. It was a fine Thursday in May. There was a crispness in the air that set the pulses beating faster and made life seem worth living indeed. Everything was done. The stores were well stowed on board, the fighting-men and carriers had answered the roll-call, and the major, with a final survey, had assured himself that nothing had been overlooked. The launches had been getting up steam for an hour or more, and the officers, having seen their men on board, were standing on the quay to take a farewell of the little group of Europeans assembled to wish them God-speed.
The whole population of the place seemed to have gathered to witness the start. Arabs in their long garments, turbaned Indians, and more or less naked negroes were mingled in one dense mass along the shore. Some of the natives had donned their best finery for the occasion. One old fellow appeared in a battered chimney-pot hat and a tattered shirt that reached his knees, with a red umbrella tucked under his arm. Others displayed plush jackets of vivid hue, and wore coral charms and bracelets round their necks and arms. Women with little brown babies filled the air with their babblement, and the noise was diversified now and then by the squealing grunt of camels and the whinnying of mules.
Tom was the last to grasp his uncle's hand.
"Good-bye, Uncle!" he said. "Good luck to you!"
"Good-bye, my boy! Sorry you aren't with us. But cheer up; please God, we'll have a good time together yet."
Then the gangway was removed, and, amid British cheers and African whoops, the launches puffed and snorted and glided away over the brownish waters of the great lake.