“I did hear something about your taking a provision convoy up to Butindi the day after to-morrow,” was the reply. “One of our Majors is up there with a mixed force of Ours and the Arab Company, with some odds and ends of King’s African Rifles and things. . . . Pity you haven’t a tent.”
After looking over the Hundred and committing them to the charge of the Subedar-Major of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, Captain Hall invited Bertram “to make himself at home” in his hut, and led the way to where a row of green tents and grass huts stood near the Officers’ Mess. On a Roorkee chair, at the door of one of these, sat none other than the Lieutenant Stanner whom Bertram had last seen on the deck of Elymas. With him was another subaltern, one of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth.
“Hullo, Greene-bird!” cried Stanner. “Welcome home. Allow me to present you to my friend Best. . . . He is Very Best to-day, because he has got a bottle of whisky in his bed. He’ll only be Second Best to-morrow, because he won’t have any by then. . . . Not if he’s a gentleman, that is,” he added, eyeing Best anxiously.
That officer grinned, arose, and entering the hut, produced the whisky, a box of “sparklets,” a kind of siphon, and a jug of dirty water.
“You already know Hall?” continued Stanner, the loquacious. “I was at school with his father. He’s a good lad. Address him as Baronial Hall when you want something, Music Hall when you’re feeling girlish, Town Hall when he’s coming the pompous Adjutant over you, and Mission Hall when you’re tired of him.”
“Don’t associate with him, Greene. Come away,” said Captain Hall. “He’ll teach you to play shove-ha’penny, to smoke, and to use bad language,” but as Best handed him a whisky-and-dirty-water, feebly aerated by a sparklet, he tipped Stanner from his chair, seated himself in it, murmured, “When sinners entice thee, consent thou some,” and drank.
“Why are you dressed like that? Is it your birthday, or aren’t you very well?” enquired Stanner suddenly, eyeing Bertram’s lethal weapons and Sepoy’s turban. Bertram blushed, pleaded that he had nowhere to “undress,” and had only just arrived. Whereupon the Adjutant, remarking that he must be weary, arose and took him to his hut.
“Get out of everything but your shirt and shorts, my son,” said he, “and chuck that silly puggri away before you get sunstroke. All very well if you’re going into a scrap, but it’s as safe as Piccadilly round here.” Bertram, as he sank into the Adjutant’s chair, suddenly realised that he was more tired than ever he had been in his life before.
“Where Bwana sleeping to-night, sah, thank you, please?” boomed a familiar voice, and before the tent stood the faithful Ali, bowing and saluting—behind him three tall Kavirondo carrying Bertram’s kit. Ali had commandeered these men from Bridges’ party, and had hurried them off far in advance of the porters who were bringing in the general kit, rations, and ammunition. By means best known to himself he had galvanised the “low niggers” into agility and activity that surprised none more than themselves.
“Oh—it’s my servant,” said Bertram to the Adjutant. “May he put my bed in here, then?”