The gazelle was still there—there in a carpeted, comfortable cabin, on board a ship, in the Indian Ocean. . . .
He rubbed his eyes.
Then he put out his hand to pass it through the spectral Thing and confirm his worst fears.
The gazelle licked his hand, and he sat up and said: “Oh, damn!” and laughed weakly.
The animal left the cabin, and he heard its hoofs pattering on the linoleum.
Later he found it to be a pet of the captain of the Barjordan, Captain O’Connor.
Next morning the ship anchored a mile or so from a mangrove swamp, and the business of disembarkation began again, this time into the ship’s boats and some sailing dhows that had met the Barjordan at this spot.
When all the Sepoys and stores were in the boats and dhows, he put on the puggri which Bludyer had given him, with the assistance of Ali Suleiman and the Gurkha Subedar, looked at himself in the glass, and wished he felt as fine and fierce a fellow as he looked. . . . He then said “Farewell” to kindly Captain O’Connor and burly, energetic Mr. Wigger—both of whom he liked exceedingly—received their hearty good wishes and exhortations to slay and spare not, and went down on the motor-launch that was to tow the laden boats to the low gloomy shore—if a mangrove swamp can be called a shore. . . .
One more “beginning”—or one more stage on the road to War! Here was he, Bertram Greene, armed to the teeth, with a turban on his head, about to be landed—and left—on the shores of the mainland of this truly Dark Continent. He was about to invade Africa! . . .
If only his father and Miranda could see him now!