Torpenhow waited till the sketch was finished, and when he had looked at it said, “What’s your business here?”
“Nothing; there was a row, so I came. I’m supposed to be doing something down at the painting-slips among the boats, or else I’m in charge of the condenser on one of the water-ships. I’ve forgotten which.”
“You’ve cheek enough to build a redoubt with,” said Torpenhow, and took stock of the new acquaintance. “Do you always draw like that?”
The young man produced more sketches. “Row on a Chinese pig-boat,” said he, sententiously, showing them one after another.—“Chief mate dirked by a comprador.—Junk ashore off Hakodate.—Somali muleteer being flogged.—Star-shelled bursting over camp at Berbera.—Slave-dhow being chased round Tajurrah Bah.—Soldier lying dead in the moonlight outside Suakin.—throat cut by Fuzzies.”
“H’m!” said Torpenhow, “can’t say I care for Verestchagin-and-water myself, but there’s no accounting for tastes. Doing anything now, are you?”
“No. I’m amusing myself here.”
Torpenhow looked at the aching desolation of the place. “Faith, you’ve queer notions of amusement. Got any money?”
“Enough to go on with. Look here: do you want me to do war-work?”
“I don’t. My syndicate may, though. You can draw more than a little, and I don’t suppose you care much what you get, do you?”
“Not this time. I want my chance first.”