And here was Tari Barl—"Tarry Barrel," his master invariably dubbed him—smiling all over his ebony features as he stood, clad in active service kit and holding a cup of fragrant tea.
Tari Barl was a typical specimen of the West African native from whom the ranks of the Coast regiments are recruited. In height about five feet ten, he was well built from his thighs upwards. Even his loosely-fitting khaki tunic did not conceal the massive chest with its supple muscles and the long, sinewy arms that knew how to swing to the rhythm of bayonet exercise. His legs, however, were thin and spindly. To any one not accustomed to the native build it would seem strange that the apparently puny lower limbs could support such a heavy frame. He was wearing khaki shorts and puttees; even the latter, tightly fitting, did little to disguise the meagreness of his calves. He was barefooted, for the West African soldier has a rooted dislike to boots, although issued as part of his equipment. On ceremonial parades he will wear them, outwardly uncomplainingly, but at the first opportunity he will discard them, slinging the unnecessary footgear round his neck. Thorns, that in the "bush" will rip the best pair of British-made marching-boots to shreds in a very short time, trouble him hardly at all, for the soles of his feet, which with the palms of his hands are the only white parts of his epidermis, are as hard as iron.
"All my kit ready, Tarry Barrel?" enquired Wilmshurst as he sipped his tea.
"All ready, sah; Sergeant Bela Moshi him lib for tell fatigue party mighty quick. No need worry, sah."
Dismissing his servant the subaltern "tubbed" and dressed. They start the day early on the Coast, getting through most of the routine before nine, since the intense heat of the tropical sun makes strenuous exertion not only unpleasant but highly dangerous.
But to-day was of a different order. The regiment was to embark at eight o'clock on board the transport Zungeru for active service in the vast stretch of country known as "German East," where the Huns with their well-trained Askaris, or native levies, were putting up a stiff resistance against the Imperial and Colonial troops of the British Empire.
On his way to the mess Wilmshurst ran up against Barkley, the P.M.O. of the garrison.
"Hullo there!" exclaimed the doctor. "How goes it? Fit?"
"Absolutely," replied the subaltern.
The doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He knew perfectly well that no officer warned for active service would reply otherwise.