“Who on earth’s Pip Emma?” enquired the bewildered Bertram, as they hurried down the hill to the quay.
“What British soldier-mans and officer-bwanas in Signal Corps call ‘p.m.,’ sah,” was the reply. “Master saying ‘six p.m.,’ but Signal Bwana always saying ‘six pip emma’—all same meaning but different language, please God, sah. P’r’aps German talk, sah? I do’n’ know, sah.”
And Bertram then remembered being puzzled by a remark of Maxton (to the effect that he had endeavoured to go down to his cabin at “three ack emma” and being full of “beer,” had fallen “ack over tock” down the companion), and saw light on the subject. Truly these brigade signaller people talked in a weird tongue that might seem a foreign language to an uninitiated listener.
At the pier he saw Commander Finnis, of the Royal Indian Marine, and gratefully accepted an offer of a joy-ride in his launch to the good ship Elymas, to which that officer was proceeding.
“We’re disembarking you blokes to-morrow morning,” said he to Bertram, as they seated themselves in the stern of the smart little boat. “Indian troops going under canvas here, and British entraining for Nairobi. Two British officers of Indian Army to proceed by tug at once to M’paga, a few hours down the coast, in German East. Scrap going on there. Poor devils will travel on deck, packed tight with fifty sheep and a gang of nigger coolies. . . . Some whiff!” and he chuckled callously.
“D’you know who are going?” asked Bertram eagerly. Suppose he should be one of them—and in a “scrap” by this time to-morrow! How would he comport himself in his first fight?
“No,” yawned the Commander. “O.C. troops on board will settle that.”
And Bertram held his peace, visualising himself as collecting his kit, hurrying on to a dirty little tug to sit in the middle of a flock of sheep while the boat puffed and panted through the night along the mysterious African shore, landing on some white coral beach beneath the palms at dawn, hurrying to join the little force fighting with its back to the sea and its face to the foe, leaping into a trench, seizing the rifle of a dying man whose limp fingers unwillingly relaxed their grip, firing rapidly but accurately into the—
“Up you go,” quoth Commander Finnis, and Bertram arose and stepped on to the platform at the bottom of the ladder that hospitably climbed the side of His Majesty’s Troop-ship Elymas.