“Oh, sah! Bwana not mentioning it by golly,” replied Ali and fled.
Mrs. Stayne-Brooker was crossing from the Hospital to Vasco da Gama Street for lunch when, having run quicker than any trolley ever did, he caught sight of her, salaamed and presented the two chits, written for Bertram by a hospital friend and companion of his journey, as soon as they got on board. She opened the one addressed to herself.
“My Dear Mrs. Stayne-Brooker,” it ran, “I have just reached the Madras, and sail at six this evening. I cannot tell you how much I should like to see you, if you could take your evening drive in this direction and come on board. How I wish I could stay and convalesce in Mombasa! Very much more than ever words could possibly express. It is just awful to pass through like this.
“I do hope you can come.
“Your ever grateful and devoted
“Bertram Greene.”
The worthy Ali, panting and perspiring, thought the lady was going to fall.
“Bertram!” she whispered, and then her heart beat again, and she regained control of her trembling limbs.
“You are Greene Bwana’s boy!” she said, searching Ali’s bedewed but beaming countenance. “Is he—is he ill—hurt—wounded?” (She did not know that the man had been in her husband’s service.)
“Yes, Mem,” was the cheerful reply. “Shot in all arms and legs. Also quite well, thank you.”
“Go and tell him I will come,” she said. “Be quick. Here—baksheesh. . . . Now, hurry.”
“Oh, Mem! Mem-Sahib not mentioning it, thank you please,” murmured Ali as his huge paw engulfed the rupees. Turning, he started forthwith upon the four-mile return run.
Putting the note addressed to her daughter on the lunch-table, beside her plate, she hurried into her room, crying for joy, and, with trembling hands, made her toilette. She must look her best—look her youngest.