"That is one thing I can really do for you," Courtney answered. "I've no official standing, but the boys all listen to me. I'll tell them—"
"For the love of God don't tell them too much!" Fred exclaimed.
"I'll tell them you're friends of mine," he went on. "I believe that will solve the sporting license and ammunition problem. As for the woman—if I were in your shoes I would steal a march on her. I wouldn't be surprised if your licenses and ammunition permits were here at the hotel by ten tomorrow morning. I see they've sent your guns already. Well, there's a train for Nairobi tomorrow noon, and not another for three days. I'd take tomorrow's train if I were you. I always find in going anywhere the start's the principal thing. You'll go?"
"We will," we answered, one after the other.
"Good night, then, boys; I'll be going."
But we walked with him down to his hotel—I, and I think the others, full to the teeth with the pleasure of knowing him, as well as of envy of his scars, his five or six South African campaigns, his adventures, and (by no means least) his unblemished record as a gentleman. Merely a little bit of a man with a limp, but better than a thousand men who lacked his gentleness.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NJO HAPA SONG
Delights—ah, Ten are the dear delights (and the Book
forbids them, one by one)—
The broad old roads of a thousand loves—back turned to the
Law—the lawless fun—
Old Arts for new—old hours reborn—and who shall mourn
when the sands have run?
I was old when they told the Syren Tales
(All ears were open then!)
And the harps were afire with plucked desire
For the white ash oars again—
For oars and sail, and the open sea,
High prow against pure blue,
The good sea spray on eye and lip,
The thrumming hemp, the rise and dip,
The plunge and the roll of a driven ship
As the old course boils anew!