“That’s very well; but the enemy may be less considerate,” said Mortimer.

“They are not strong enough to force a battle.”

“A skirmish, then?”

“Much more likely to be a raid upon the rear.  In that case we are just where we should be.”

“So we are!  What a score over Reuter’s man up with the advance!  Well, we’ll outspan and have our tiffin under the palms.”

There were three of them, and they stood for three great London dailies.  Reuter’s was thirty miles ahead; two evening pennies upon camels were twenty miles behind.  And among them they represented the eyes and ears of the public—­the great silent millions and millions who had paid for everything, and who waited so patiently to know the result of their outlay.

They were remarkable men these body-servants of the Press; two of them already veterans in camps, the other setting out upon his first campaign, and full of deference for his famous comrades.

This first one, who had just dismounted from his bay polo-pony, was Mortimer, of the Intelligence—­tall, straight, and hawk-faced, with khaki tunic and riding-breeches, drab putties, a scarlet cummerbund, and a skin tanned to the red of a Scotch fir by sun and wind, and mottled by the mosquito and the sand-fly.  The other—­small, quick, mercurial, with blue-black, curling beard and hair, a fly-switch for ever flicking in his left hand—­was Scott, of the Courier, who had come through more dangers and brought off more brilliant coups than any man in the profession, save the eminent Chandler, now no longer in a condition to take the field.  They were a singular contrast, Mortimer and Scott, and it was in their differences that the secret of their close friendship lay.  Each dovetailed into the other.  The strength of each was in the other’s weakness.  Together they formed a perfect unit.  Mortimer was Saxon—­slow, conscientious, and deliberate; Scott was Celtic—­quick, happy-go-lucky, and brilliant.  Mortimer was the more solid, Scott the more attractive.  Mortimer was the deeper thinker, Scott the brighter talker.  By a curious coincidence, though each had seen much of warfare, their campaigns had never coincided.  Together they covered all recent military history.  Scott had done Plevna, the Shipka, the Zulus, Egypt, Suakim; Mortimer had seen the Boer War, the Chilian, the Bulgaria and Servian, the Gordon relief, the Indian frontier, Brazilian rebellion, and Madagascar.  This intimate personal knowledge gave a peculiar flavour to their talk.  There was none of the second-hand surmise and conjecture which form so much of our conversation; it was all concrete and final.  The speaker had been there, had seen it, and there was an end of it.

In spite of their friendship there was the keenest professional rivalry between the two men.  Either would have sacrificed himself to help his companion, but either would also have sacrificed his companion to help his paper.  Never did a jockey yearn for a winning mount as keenly as each of them longed to have a full column in a morning edition whilst every other daily was blank.  They were perfectly frank about the matter.  Each professed himself ready to steal a march on his neighbour, and each recognised that the other’s duty to his employer was far higher than any personal consideration.