cal island with
the faults of its qualities, I should say. Most of its German
tenants were prisoners now, a few had escaped in canoes. Their
sergeant of askaris, a stout fellow, had passed the word of 'no
surrender.' But for all that very few native soldiers seemed to
be in the bush now. Most seemed to have surrendered, or to have
transformed themselves into civilians.

I had reached my host's lodging just before sundown on Saturday
night. We dined simply, as far as courses went, but our
conversation came easily and took many turns. There seemed to be
something in the air that night. There were three of us at the
table, my host and Hunter and I. Hunter was a naval man who had
walked up with me, and was staying the night. He was very fresh
and pleasant to look at; he seemed old for his years, which were
few; he had a range of interests as well as powers of expression.
Did he seem just a little conscious of his tender age? Was he not
a bit too anxious to profess disillusion? Yes, he was cynical
about Belgians, also about France, also about the Foreign Office.
I suffered him thus far with a certain guilty gladness. But the
Intelligence Officer demurred grimly. He was a patriot and a
fighting man. They had switched a maxim on to him years before,
but he was still going hardily, albeit he limped. He had fought
in an irregular white corps in the present campaign; he had
raised an irregular black corps; our adversaries were said to
have priced his head. He had charming manners; he had befriended
me nobly not once nor twice. He was a man surely of extraordinary
dash and resource. I had no sort of reason to doubt the great
stories I had heard of him, of his coolness under fire and in
tight places. I had seen every reason to believe them. For all
that, my affection for him was mixed with another feeling. He was
very tall. His face wore a sort of perennial fever-flush. He was
very dark. His eyes were fine and fierce, too; he wore a strange
he-goat-tuft on his chin. I found myself chuckling privately that
evening over a bizarre fancy of mine. I had remembered a certain
mediaeval print of a famous character. Yes, there certainly was a
likeness.

We discussed Intelligence Work a branch of War Service as to
which I am apt to be prejudiced. To my indefensible delight.
Hunter excelled himself at giving my own views voice over the
pudding. Never did I hear an indictment more sweeping. He spoke
of the reading of people's letters, the