“Yes—to collar the lightest loads,” was the illuminating reply.
The zeal faded as rapidly as it had glowed when he coldly pointed with the kiboko, which was his badge of office and constant companion, to the heavy ammunition-boxes.
“I should keep that near the advance-guard and under a special guard of its own,” said he.
“I’m going to—naturally,” replied Bertram shortly, and added: “Hurry them along, please. I want to get off to-day.”
Bridges stared. This was a much more assured and autocratic person than the mild youth he had met at the water’s edge a day or two ago.
“Well—if you like to push off with the advance-guard, I’ll see that a constant stream of porters files off from here, and that your rear-guard follows them,” said he.
“Thanks—I’ll not start till I’ve seen the whole convoy ready,” replied Bertram.
Yesterday he’d have been glad of advice from anybody. Now he’d take it from no one. Orders he would obey, of course—but “a poor thing but mine own” should be his motto with regard to his method of carrying out whatever he was left to do. They’d told him to take their beastly convoy; they’d left him to do it; and he’d do it as he thought fit. . . . Curse the rain, the mud, the stench, the hunger, sickness and the beastly pain that nearly doubled him up and made him feel faint. . . .
Grayne strolled over.
“Time you bunged off, my lad,” quoth he, loftily.