d him,
The Pit of Hell below.

"About as bad as they can be, sir. That's how things is." Joseph set
down his master's breakfast on the rough table that stood in front of
his tent and looked at Jack Meredith.

Meredith had a way of performing most of his toilet outside his
tent, and while Joseph made his discouraging report he was engaged in
buttoning his waistcoat. He nodded gravely, but his manner was not that
of a man who fully realised his position of imminent danger. Some men
are like this--they die without getting at all flustered.

"There's not more nor two or three out of the whole lot that I can put
any trust in," continued Joseph.

Jack Meredith was putting on his coat.

"I know what a barrack-room mutiny is. I've felt it in the hatmosphere,
so to speak, before now, sir."

"And what does it feel like?" inquired Jack Meredith, lightly arranging
his watch-chain.

But Joseph did not answer. He stepped backwards into the tent and
brought two rifles. There was no need of answer; for this came in the
sound of many voices, the clang and clatter of varied arms.

"Here they come, sir," said the soldier-servant--respectful, mindful of
his place even at this moment.

Jack Meredith merely sat down behind the little table where his
breakfast stood untouched. He leant his elbow on the table and watched
the approach of the disorderly band of blacks. Some ran, some hung back,
but all were armed.

In front walked a small, truculent-looking man with broad shoulders and
an aggressive head.

He planted himself before Meredith, and turning, with a wave of the
hand, to indicate his followers, said in English:

"These men--these friends of me--say they are tired of you. You no good
leader. They make me their leader."

He shrugged his shoulders with a hideous grin of deprecation.

"I not want. They make me. We go to join our friends in the valley."

He pointed down into the valley where the enemy was encamped.

"We have agreed to take two hundred pounds for you. Price given by our
friends in valley--"

The man stopped suddenly. He was looking into the muzzle of a revolver
with a fixed fascination. Jack Meredith exhibited no haste. He did not
seem yet to have realised the gravity of the situation. He took very
careful aim and pulled the trigger. A little puff of white smoke floated
over their heads. The broad-shouldered man with the aggressive head
looked stupidly surprised. He turned towards his supporters w