Scott was breaking eggs into a pan and rolling out a love-song in his rich, deep voice.  Anerley, with his head and arms buried in a deal packing-case, was working his way through strata of tinned soups, bully beef, potted chicken, and sardines to reach the jams which lay beneath.  The conscientious Mortimer, with his notebook upon his knee, was jotting down what the railway engineer had told him at the line-end the day before.  Suddenly he raised his eyes and saw the man himself on his chestnut pony, dipping and rising over the broken ground.

“Hullo!  Here’s Merryweather!”

“A pretty lather his pony is in!  He’s had her at that hand-gallop for hours, by the look of her.  Hullo, Merryweather, hullo!”

The engineer, a small, compact man with a pointed red beard, had made as though he would ride past their camp without word or halt.  Now he swerved, and easing his pony down to a canter, he headed her to-wards them.

“For God’s sake, a drink!” he croaked.  “My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.”

Mortimer ran with the water-bottle, Scott with the whisky-flask, and Anerley with the tin pannikin.  The engineer drank until his breath failed him.

“Well, I must be off,” said he, striking the drops from his red moustache.

“Any news?”

“A hitch in the railway construction.  I must see the general.  It’s the devil not having a telegraph.”

“Anything we can report?” Out came three notebooks.

“I’ll tell you after I’ve seen the general.”

“Any dervishes?”

“The usual shaves.  Hud-up, Jinny!  Good-bye!”

With a soft thudding upon the sand, and a clatter among the stones the weary pony was off upon her journey once more.

“Nothing serious, I suppose?” said Mortimer, staring after him.

“Deuced serious,” cried Scott.  “The ham and eggs are burned!  No—­it’s all right—­saved, and done to a turn!  Pull the box up, Anerley.  Come on, Mortimer, stow that notebook!  The fork is mightier than the pen just at present.  What’s the matter with you, Anerley?”

“I was wondering whether what we have just seen was worth a telegram.”

“Well, it’s for the proprietors to say if it’s worth it.  Sordid money considerations are not for us.  We must wire about something just to justify our khaki coats and our putties.”

“But what is there to say?”

Mortimer’s long, austere face broke into a smile over the youngster’s innocence.  “It’s not quite usual in our profession to give each other tips,” said he.  “However, as my telegram is written, I’ve no objection to your reading it.  You may be sure that I would not show it to you if it were of the slightest importance.”

Anerley took up the slip of paper and read:—­

   Merryweather obstacles stop journey confer general stop nature
   difficulties later stop rumours dervishes.