“Thanks,” replied Bertram, wondering if there were a Jungle Hotel within easy reach of the boma, or whether the outpost had its own Place, “licensed for the sale of beer, wine, spirits, and tobacco, to be consumed on the premises. . . .”
In the High Street, next door to the Officers’ Mess, were two green tents, outside one of which stood a rough camp-table of the “folding” variety, a native string bed, and a circle of Roorkee chairs, boxes and stools. On an erection of sticks and withes, resembling an umbrella stand, stood an orderly array of fresh coco-nuts, the tops of which had been sliced off to display the white interior with its pint or so of sweet, limpid milk.
Emerging from the tent, an Arab “boy” in a blue turban, blue jacket buttoning up to the chin, blue petticoat and puttees, placed bottles of various kinds on the table, together with a “sparklet” apparatus and a pannikin of water. The Bristol Bar was open. . . . From the other tent emerged an officer in the blue uniform of the little fair men.
He eyed the muddy ground, the ugly grey bandas of withered grass and leaves, the muddy, naked Kavirondo—piling their loads on the commissariat dump, and the general dreary, cheerless scene, with the cold eye of extreme distaste and disfavour.
“Yah!” said he. He eyed the bottles on the table.
“Ah!” said he, and seated himself behind the Bristol Bar.
“Start with a Ver-Gin, I think, as I’ve been such a good boy to-day,” he murmured, and, pouring a measure of Italian vermuth into an enamelled mug, he added a smaller allowance of gin.
“Wish some fool’d roll up so that I can get a drink,” he grumbled, holding the mug in his hand.
It did not occur to him to “faire Suisse,” as the French say—to drink alone. He must at least say “Chin-chin” or “Here’s how” to somebody else with a drink in his hand. Had it been cocoa, now, or something of that sort, one might drink gallons of it without a word to a soul. One could lie in bed and wallow and soak, lap it up like a cat or take it in through the pores—but this little drop of alcohol must not be drunk without a witness and a formula. So Lieutenant Forbes possessed his soul in impatience.
A minute later, from every banda and tent, from the Officers’ Mess and from all directions, came British officers, bearing each man in his hands something to drink or something from which to drink.