As for father and George, they were brought very near together in that terrible fight; for father learnt what a brave fellow he had for a son, even though he would not be a farmer.
L. L. Weedon.
CAPTAIN AYRES sat in his hot little tent, writing. Outside there was the breathless stillness of a June night in Burmah, and the heavy, soaking, ceaseless rain had given him a touch of fever. For weeks he had been leading his little force from point to point on the track of the dacoits, or robber bands, and he was thoroughly disheartened, for they had never yet had the least chance of a fight.
He was a police officer, and a very brave one, and was particularly anxious to capture one of the head-men of the dacoits, just to make certain that it could be done.
He wrote a little bit, and then stopped, and then wrote again. Outside, the bright camp-fire crackled and sputtered, as the natives squatted round it, and threw on the logs and damp leaves. Nearer still, quite close to the entrance of his tent, he could see, between him and the fire, a curly black head, laid upon a pair of folded arms. Really, there seemed nothing to say—nothing, at least, that would interest his mother, who knew very little indeed about dacoits, and would probably hardly understand what he meant if he wrote about them.
He stretched out his legs, and yawned, and his sword, which was leaning against the table, fell to the ground with a clatter. As it did so, the little brown imp in the doorway rose hastily and almost fell into the tent.
"Master."
Captain Ayres looked round impatiently.
"Boots! you here? You ought to have been asleep hours ago; go away at once."