“’Tis—up-country at any rate. That reminds me,” he felt in his waistcoat-pocket, “I’ve got a curiosity for you from Wankies—beyond Buluwayo. It’s more of a souvenir perhaps than——”
“The old hotel’s inhabited,” cried a voice. “White men from the language. Marines to the front! Come on, Pritch. Here’s your Belmont. Wha—i—i!”
The last word dragged like a rope as Mr. Pyecroft ran round to the open door, and stood looking up into my face. Behind him an enormous Sergeant of Marines trailed a stalk of dried seaweed, and dusted the sand nervously from his fingers.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought the Hierophant was down the coast?”
“We came in last Tuesday—from Tristan D’Acunha—for overhaul, and we shall be in dockyard ’ands for two months, with boiler-seatings.”
“Come and sit down,” Hooper put away the file.
“This is Mr. Hooper of the Railway,” I exclaimed, as Pyecroft turned to haul up the black-moustached sergeant.
“This is Sergeant Pritchard, of the Agaric, an old shipmate,” said he. “We were strollin’ on the beach.” The monster blushed and nodded. He filled up one side of the van when he sat down.
“And this is my friend, Mr. Pyecroft,” I added to Hooper, already busy with the extra beer which my prophetic soul had bought from the Greeks.
“Moi aussi” quoth Pyecroft, and drew out beneath his coat a labelled quart bottle.