That officer smiled and pointed right and left to where, behind logs, mounds, bushes, and other cover, both natural and hastily prepared, lay his men, rifles cuddled lovingly to shoulder, fingers curled affectionately round triggers, eyes fixed unswervingly upon the approaching column, and faces grimly expectant. So still and so well hidden were they, that Bertram had not noticed the fact of their presence. He wondered whether the Subedar had personally strewn grass, leaves and brushwood over them after they had taken up their positions. He thought of the Babes in the Wood, and visualised the fierce little Gurkha as a novel kind of robin for the work of burying with dead leaves. . . .
He stopped in the path and awaited the arrival of the white man.
“Good morning, Mr. Greene,” said that individual, as he approached. “Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, but I had another job to finish first.”
Bertram stared in amazement at this person who rolled up from the wilds of the Dark Continent with an unarmed party, addressed him by name, and apologised for being late! He was a saturnine and pessimistic-looking individual, wore the South African War ribbons on his breast, and the letters C.C. on his shoulders, and a lieutenant’s stars.
“Good morning,” replied Bertram, shaking hands. “I’m awfully glad to see you. I was wondering whether I ought to push off or stay here. . . .”
“No attractions much here,” said the new-comer. “I should bung off. . . . Straight along this path. Can’t miss the way.”
“Is there much danger of attack?” asked Bertram.
“Insects,” replied the other.
“Why not by Germans?” enquired Bertram.
“River on your left flank,” was the brief answer of the saturnine and pessimistic one.