Behind the three officers of the garrison
the roof of the mess-room verandah threw a shadow on the ground; it
seemed a solid piece of blackness.
One of the three officers struck a match and held it to the end of his
cigar. The flame lit up a troubled and anxious face.
"I hope that no harm has come to him," he said, as he threw the match
away. "I wish that I could say I believed it."
The speaker was a man of middle age and the colonel of a Soudanese
battalion. He was answered by a man whose hair had gone grey, it is
true. But grey hair is frequent in the Soudan, and his unlined face
still showed that he was young. He was Lieutenant Calder of the
Engineers. Youth, however, in this instance had no optimism wherewith to
challenge Colonel Dawson.
"He left Halfa eight weeks ago, eh?" he said gloomily.
"Eight weeks to-day," replied the colonel.
It was the third officer, a tall, spare, long-necked major of the Army
Service Corps, who alone hazarded a cheerful prophecy.
"It's early days to conclude Durrance has got scuppered," said he. "One
knows Durrance. Give him a camp-fire in the desert, and a couple of
sheiks to sit round it with him, and he'll buck to them for a month and
never feel bored at the end.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159