"All right, sah; so long!" The slang sounded strange in the mouth of a Muhima, and Tom's lips twitched with amusement as he turned his back.
Forty minutes later, as he was walking as fast as his sore feet allowed through a stretch of thin forest, he was halted by the bayonet of a Soudanese sergeant, who looked at him with amazement.
"All right, sergeant; I'm Major Burnaby's nephew. You can let me through."
The Soudanese happened to be one of the draft picked up at Entebbe, and thus had not seen Tom before. He seemed too much surprised to think. The stranger was unmistakeably an Englishman, however, and he could not be going very far wrong if he sent him under guard to the major. Calling two of his men, he instructed them to lead Tom between them to the commanding officer, who was superintending the formation of a camp about a mile ahead.
Tom limped along, feeling now too much excited, as well as exhausted, to attempt any conversation with his escort. Two minutes after leaving the sergeant, he heard a familiar voice before him.
"There now, more comfortable now, aren't ye? Just take care you don't go putting your foot on a thorn again. Bedad, it's you scoundhrels of porters that get more out of the R.A.M.C. than the soldiers at all, at all. Now just be after minding your toes, ye spalpeen."
Dr. Corney O'Brien had just extracted a thorn from a Zanzibari's foot, when he looked up and caught sight of Tom.
"By all the holy powers!" he exclaimed. "It's you!"
"Yes--it's myself, doctor," said Tom, with a feeble attempt to smile.
"'Pon my soul, I thought it was your ghost!" gasped the doctor. "Ah, faith, won't the major be pleased! I wouldn't be in your shoes for-- But, save us, the lad's dead-beat."