discomfort, all that he could see of the half-dozen gentlemen was one dozen boot-soles backed by a blur of khaki.  Up to the time he had reached the flight of steps, leading up from the drive to the verandah, no one had moved.  Mounting the steps, and coming to the level of the recumbent figures, ranged along the rear wall of the verandah and on each side of an open door, the unhappy Bertram, from this new standpoint, saw that the face of each officer was hidden behind a newspaper or a magazine. . . .  Profound silence reigned as he regarded the twelve boot-soles, each crossed by a spur-chain, and the six newspapers.

Another embarrassing and discomfortable situation.  What should he do?  Should he cough—as the native does when he wishes to attract your attention, or to re-affirm his forgotten presence?  It seemed a rather feeble and banal idea.  Should he pretend he had not seen the six stalwart men lying there in front of his nose, and shout: “Qui hai!” as one does to call an invisible servant?  And suppose none of them moved, and a Mess servant came—he had no card to send in.  He couldn’t very well tell the man to announce in stentorian voice and the manner of a herald: “Behold!  Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, of the Indian Army Reserve, standeth on the threshold!”  And supposing the man did precisely this and still nobody moved, what a superlative ass the said Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene would feel! . . .  But could he feel a bigger ass than he did already—standing there in awkward silence beneath the stony regard, or disregard, of the twelve contemptuous boot-soles? . . .

Should he walk along the row of them, giving each alternate foot a heavy blow?  That would make them look up all right. . . .  Or should he seize a couple of them and operate them in the manner of the young lady in the Railway Refreshment Rooms or the Village Inn, as she manipulates the handles of the beer-engine?  The owners of the two he grabbed and pulled would come from behind their papers fast enough. . . .  Bertram moved, and his sword clanked sharply against a pillar.  None of the readers had looked up at the sound of footsteps—they were resting from the labours of breakfast, and footsteps, as such, are of no interest.  But, strange to say, at the sound of a sword clanking, they moved as one man; six papers were lowered and six pairs of eyes stared at the unhappy Bertram.  After three seconds of penetrating scrutiny, the six papers rose again as one, as though at the sound of the ancient and useful military order, “As you were.”

Major Fordinghame beheld a very good-looking boy, who appeared to be taking his new sword and revolver for a walk in the nice sunshine and giving the public a treat.  He’d hardly be calling on the Mess dressed up in lethal weapons.  Probably wanted the Adjutant or somebody.  He was quite welcome to ’em. . . .  These “planter” cheroots were extraordinarily good at the price. . . .  Lieutenant and Quartermaster Macteith wondered who the devil this was.  Why did he stick there like a stuck pig and a dying cod-fish?  Still—if he wanted to stick, let him stick, by all means.  Free country. . . .  Captain Brylle only vaguely realised that he was staring hard at some bloke or other—he was bringing all the great resources of his brain to bear upon a joke in the pink paper he affected.  It was so deep, dark and subtle a joke that he had not yet “got” it.  Bloke on the door-mat.  What of it? . . .  Captain Tavner had received a good fat cheque that morning; he was going on ten days’ leave to-morrow; he had done for to-day; and he had had a bottle of beer for breakfast.  He didn’t mind if there were a rhinoceros on the doorstep.  Doubtless someone would take it into the Mess and give it a drink. . . .  Cove had got his sword on—or was it two swords?  Didn’t matter to him, anyway. . . .

Captain Melhuish idly speculated as to whether the chap would be “calling” at so early an hour of the morning.  It was the Mess President’s business, anyhow. . . .  Why the sword and revolver?  And mentally murmuring: “Enter—one in armour,” Captain Melhuish, the doyen of the famous Madrutta Amateur Dramatic Society, returned to his perusal of The Era. . .  Lieutenant Bludyer didn’t give a damn, anyhow. . . .  And so none of these gentlemen, any one of whom would have arisen, had he been sitting there alone, and welcomed Bertram hospitably, felt it incumbent upon him to move, and the situation resumed what Bertram privately termed its formerness.

Just as he had decided to go to the nearest reader and flatly request him to arise and direct him to the Colonel, another officer came rushing from the room whose open doorway faced the porch.  In his mouth was a quill pen, and in his hands were papers.

“Lazy perishers!” he remarked as he saw the others, and added: “Come along, young Macteith,” and was turning to hurry down the verandah when Bertram stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” he said, “d’you think I could see the Colonel?  I have been ordered to report to this regiment.”

“You could see the Colonel,” replied this officer, “but I shouldn’t, if I were you.  I’d see the Adjutant.  Much pleasanter sight.  I’m the Adjutant.  Come along to my office,” and he led the way down the verandah, across a big whitewashed room, simply furnished with a table, a chair, and a punkah, to a smaller room, furnished with two of each of the above-mentioned articles.

Dropping the pen and papers upon the table, the Adjutant wheeled round upon Bertram, and, transfixing him with a cold grey eye, said, in hollow voice and tragic tones:

“Do not trifle with me, Unhappy Boy!  Say those blessed words again—or at once declare them false. . . .  Did I hear you state that you have been ordered to join this corps—or did I not?”

“You did, sir,” smiled Bertram.

“Shake,” replied the Adjutant.  “God bless you, gentle child.  For two damns, I’d fall on your neck.  I love you.  Tell me your honoured name and I’ll send for my will. . . .”

“I’m glad I’m welcome,” said the puzzled and astonished Bertram; “but I’m afraid I shan’t be very useful.  I am absolutely ignorant—you see, I’ve not been a soldier for twenty-four hours yet. . . .  Here’s the telegram I got yesterday,” and he produced that document.

“Good youth,” replied Captain Murray.  “I don’t give a tinker’s curse if you’re deaf, dumb, blind and silly.  You are my deliverer.  I love you more and more.  I’ve been awaiting you with beating heart—lying awake for you, listening for your footprints.  Now you come—I go.”

“What—to the Front?” said Bertram.

“You’ve guessed it in once, fair youth.  East Africa for little Jock Murray.  We are sending a draft of a hundred men to our link battalion there—awfully knocked about they’ve been—and I have it, straight from the stable, that I’m the lad that takes them. . . .  They go in a day or two. . . .  I was getting a bit anxious, I can tell you—but my pal in the Brigade Office said they were certain to send a Reserve man here and relieve me. . . .  Colonel will be pleased—he never says anything but ‘H’m!’ but he’ll bite your ear if you don’t dodge.”

“I suppose he’ll simply hate losing an experienced officer and getting me,” said Bertram, apprehensively.

“He’ll make himself perfectly miserable,” was the reply, “but nothing to what he’ll make you.  I’m the Adjutant, you see, and there’ll be a bit of a muddle until my successor has picked up all the threads, and a bit of extra bother