"Right-o, Bluebottle," replied Tiny cheerfully.
Blue Fly looked both surprised and pained.
"I tell you, sah," he observed with solemn dignity. "My name is Blue Fly, sah, not Bluebottle."
"That's all right, old son," rejoined Tiny. "A mistake on both sides. My name's Desmond."
But it was a very long time before Blue Fly left off calling his new master "Demon," often at most inopportune moments.
Having bathed and dressed, Colin and Tiny found their way to the dining-room, where Colonel Narfield was awaiting them.
"Had a good night?" he inquired. "That's splendid. We won't start serious work for a couple of days. That'll give you a chance to look round, and by that time the rest of your kit ought to be here. No; we don't do much between eleven and three unless we're obliged to."
After lunch, Colonel Narfield, foregoing his customary "forty winks," showed the new arrivals round the place. The house was solidly constructed of teak with corrugated iron outside. The roof was partly thatch and partly "tin." It was not a picturesque building by any means, although the broad stoep saved it from utter ugliness. It was long and rambling, and with the exception of the right wing, was one-storeyed.
In front of the house was a wide courtyard; on the back were the stables, stores, and workshops. The whole was surrounded by a formidable-looking fence with a bank of earth on the inside and a six-feet ditch without.
The motor garage was empty for obvious reasons, but in the stable were six "salted" horses and four trek-oxen, the remainder being on their way from Tabora with the chums' luggage.