“Oh, yes, I read about it in the papers. You were mentioned in despatches.”
“They were very kind, because I was wounded. Have you heard anything of the missing will, or Harry Forsyth?”
“Not a word; but I hope for better times still,” he replied.
“So do I, Reginald, with all my heart. You have found life as a private soldier a severe trial, I fear.”
“Not out here, campaigning,” replied Kavanagh. “At home it was certainly trying at first. But the sergeant is waiting for me.”
And he saluted again and passed on, leaving his old chum very serious and meditative, which was not by any means his accustomed state of mind.
Presently Hump came up to make friends, and, when Strachan met Grant again he learned the story of the dog and his excursions to the well, and how Thomas Dobbs had made him fetch water.
“You were saying you did not know the name of this place,” cried Strachan, laughing; “you should call it after him. Bir is the Arabic I believe for a well; you should name it Bir-Hump.”
The suggestion was repeated, adopted, and spread, and the entire company always alluded to the place as Bir-Hump from that hour forward.
The day waned; the camels were saddled and loaded as quietly as might be, Strachan tightened the girths of his horse, and when the sun had set and the after-glow faded into darkness, all mounted, and the camels, led by Strachan, defiled out of the zereba like a string of ghosts.