Trench reached out his hand to Feversham.
"Thank you," he said simply.
"No need of thanks," answered Feversham, and he did not take the hand.
"I served myself from first to last."
"You have learned the churlishness of a camel," cried Trench. "A camel
will carry you where you want to go, will carry you till it drops dead,
and yet if you show your gratitude it resents and bites. Hang it all,
Feversham, there's my hand."
Feversham untied a knot in the breast of his jibbeh and took out three
white feathers, two small, the feathers of a heron, the other large, an
ostrich feather broken from a fan.
"Will you take yours back?"
"Yes."
"You know what to do with it."
"Yes. There shall be no delay."
Feversham wrapped the remaining feathers carefully away in a corner of
his ragged jibbeh and tied them safe.
"We shake hands, then," said he; and as their hands met he added,
"To-morrow morning we part company."
"Part company, you and I--after the year in Omdurman, the weeks of
flight?" exclaimed Trench. "Why? There's no more to be done. Castleton's
dead. You keep the feather which he sent, but he is dead. You can do
nothing with it. You must come home.
Pages:
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448