The Nilghai commanded silence in vain. “That's for my sake,” Dick said bitterly. “The birds are getting ready to fly, and they wouldn't tell me. I can hear Morten-Sutherland and Mackaye. Half the War Correspondents in London are there;—and I'm out of it.”
He stumbled across the landing and plunged into Torpenhow's room. He could feel that it was full of men. “Where's the trouble?” said he. “In the Balkans at last? Why didn't some one tell me?”
“We thought you wouldn't be interested,” said the Nilghai, shamefacedly.
“It's in the Soudan, as usual.”
“You lucky dogs! Let me sit here while you talk. I shan't be a skeleton at the feast.—Cassavetti, where are you? Your English is as bad as ever.”
Dick was led into a chair. He heard the rustle of the maps, and the talk swept forward, carrying him with it. Everybody spoke at once, discussing press censorships, railway-routes, transport, water-supply, the capacities of generals,—these in language that would have horrified a trusting public,—ranting, asserting, denouncing, and laughing at the top of their voices. There was the glorious certainty of war in the Soudan at any moment. The Nilghai said so, and it was well to be in readiness. The Keneu had telegraphed to Cairo for horses; Cassavetti had stolen a perfectly inaccurate list of troops that would be ordered forward, and was reading it out amid profane interruptions, and the Keneu introduced to Dick some man unknown who would be employed as war artist by the Central Southern Syndicate. “It's his first outing,” said the Keneu. “Give him some tips—about riding camels.”
“Oh, those camels!” groaned Cassavetti. “I shall learn to ride him again, and now I am so much all soft! Listen, you good fellows. I know your military arrangement very well. There will go the Royal Argalshire Sutherlanders. So it was read to me upon best authority.”
A roar of laughter interrupted him.
“Sit down,” said the Nilghai. “The lists aren't even made out in the War Office.”
“Will there be any force at Suakin?” said a voice.