"I may not," he said quietly. "We White Fathers, when we put our hands to the plough, never turn back. I shall never even see my beloved Normandy again. I shall live and die in Africa.--God bless you!" he said to Tom; "I shall not forget you, though I may never see you again."
All Mombasa was on tiptoe with excitement when it was flashed along the line that the wanderer was returning. Everybody knew that he had saved the expedition, but what had happened since then was a mystery, and a fruitful subject for speculation among the European colony. Dr. O'Brien grumbled a little when he saw the crowd awaiting the train at the terminus.
"They might have had the common sense, not to say common decency, to keep out of the way just now. Making a peep-show of us, indeed!"
But he managed to get the invalid into the hotel without mishap, and afterwards referred everybody who applied to him for information to Mr. Barkworth. "He's brimmin' with it," he said. Mr. Barkworth, indeed, was pounced on at once by an inquisitive stranger, who included among his numerous avocations that of occasional correspondent to the Times, and who cabled a column of extremely good 'copy' as soon as he had sufficiently pumped the garrulous old gentleman. This fact, no doubt, explained the number of telegrams which came during the next few days addressed to Tom--telegrams of congratulation from strangers, requests from publishers for the offer of his forthcoming volume, an invitation from a New York agency to undertake a lecture tour in the States. And yet not one-tenth of his story had been told. Mbutu had not vocabulary enough to give a consecutive narrative; it was only when Tom himself, after being mercifully spared excitement for a fortnight, was at last pronounced well enough to talk, that his friends wormed out of him bit by bit the whole story of his adventures. He dwelt lightly upon his own achievements, and Mr. Barkworth, when he retailed the narrative afterwards to all and sundry, did not fail to eulogize the "astonishing modesty of this fine young fellow; a true Englishman, you know." All which was duly doled out to the British public by the indefatigable newspaper-man.
One evening, when they had been in Mombasa for about six weeks, Sir John Burnaby was sitting with Mr. Barkworth, Major Lister, and the doctor in the smoking-room of the hotel. They were the only occupants of the room. The doctor had just announced that Tom would be well enough to leave for home by the boat sailing in three days, and the pleasure of all the gentlemen had been expressed in Mr. Barkworth's exclamation: "That's capital!" For a time they sat in silence, puffing at their cigars, each thinking over the events of the past twelvemonth in his own way. Then Major Lister, who was not usually the first to speak, said suddenly:
"Tom going back to Glasgow, sir?"
"That's a question that's been puzzling me," returned Sir John. "On the one hand, he has gone a certain way in his profession and might do well in it; on the other--"
"On the other, Burnaby," interrupted Mr. Barkworth, "he's not going back if I know it. Why, the boy's a born soldier and administrator, h'm; I knew it!"
"To tell the truth," said Sir John, "I've been wondering whether, on the strength of his doings out here, we couldn't get him a crib in the Diplomatic Service, or, if he wants to stay in Africa, in the service of one of the companies or protectorates. He asked me the other day if the Congo Free State people would give him something to do."
"That's out of the question," said Mr. Barkworth decisively. "I've read a lot of things I don't like about these Belgians, and if there is anything fishy in their methods of administration, the youngster would only eat his heart out. No; he's an Englishman; let him stick to the old country and the old flag, h'm!"