s before? Now put the
donkeys here. Not much--you don't get my polo-pony to make a zareba
with. Picket the ponies between the grove and the river out of danger's
way. These fellows seem to fire even higher than they did in '85."

"That's got home, anyhow," said Scott, as they heard a soft, splashing
thud like a stone in a mud-bank.

"Who's hit, then?"

"The brown camel that's chewing the cud." As he spoke the creature, its
jaw still working, laid its long neck along the ground and closed its
large dark eyes.

"That shot cost me 15 pounds," said Mortimer, ruefully. "How many of
them do you make?"

"Four, I think."

"Only four Bezingers, at any rate; there may be some spearmen."

"I think not; it is a little raiding-party of rifle-men. By the way,
Anerley, you've never been under fire before, have you?"

"Never," said the young pressman, who was conscious of a curious feeling
of nervous elation.

"Love and poverty and war, they are all experiences necessary to make a
complete life. Pass over those cartridges. This is a very mild baptism
that you are undergoing, for behind these camels you are as safe as if
you were sitting in the back room of the Authors' Club."

"As safe, but hardly as comfortable," said Scott. "A long glass of hock
and seltzer would be exceedingly acceptable. But oh, Mortimer, what a
chance! Think of the general's feelings when he hears that the first
action of the war has been fought by the Press column. Think of Reuter,
who has been stewing at the front for a week! Think of the evening
pennies just too late for the fun. By George, that slug brushed a
mosquito off me!"

"And one of the donkeys is hit."

"This is sinful. It will end in our having to carry our own kits to
Khartoum."

"Never mind, my boy, it all goes to make copy. I can see the
headlines--'Raid on Communications'; 'Murder of British Engineer':
'Press Column Attacked.' Won't it be ripping?"

"I wonder what the next line will be," said Anerley.

"'Our Special Wounded'!" cried Scott, rolling over on to his back.
"No harm done," he added, gathering himself up again; "only a chip off
my knee. This is getting sultry. I confess that the idea of that back
room at the Authors' Club begins to grow upon me."

"I have some diachylon."

"Afterwards will do. We're having a 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush.
I wish he _would_ rush."

"They're coming nearer."

"This is an excellent revolver of mine if it didn