“‘No.’
“‘What then?’
“‘In the army of Our Lord the Mahdi. And I was shot in front of the line of British soldiers who wear petticoats! . . .’”
“Did you take him?” asked the Major, as the laugh subsided.
“Rather!” was the reply. “A lad who fought against us and expects us to give him a medal for it, evidently thinks we are sportsmen, and probably is one himself. I fancy he’s done a lot of mixed fighting at different times. . . . Says he knew Gordon. . . .”
The cook, Mess butler, and a deputation of servants approached, salaamed as one man, and held their peace.
“What’s up?” asked the Major. “Anyone dead?”
“The Pudding, sah,” said the cook, and all the congregation said, “The Pudding.”
A painful brooding silence settled upon the Bristol Bar.
“If you’ve let pi-dogs or shenzis or kites eat that pudding, they shall eat you—alive,” promised the Major—and he had the air of one whose word is his bond.