“No, no, the real high-bred trotter—­the kind of beast the dervishes ride when they make their lightning raids.”

“Faster than a galloping horse?” “Well, it tires a horse down.  It goes the same gait all the way, and it wants neither halt nor drink, and it takes rough ground much better than a horse.  They used to have long distance races at Haifa, and the camel always won at thirty.”

“Still, we need not reproach ourselves, Scott, for we are not very likely to have to carry a thirty-mile message, they will have the field telegraph next week.”

“Quite so.  But at the present moment—­”

“I know, my dear chap; but there is no motion of urgency before the house.  Load baggles at five o’clock; so you have Just three hours clear.  Any sign of the evening pennies?”

Mortimer swept the northern horizon with his binoculars.  “Not in sight yet.”

“They are quite capable of travelling during the heat of the day.  Just the sort of thing evening pennies would do.  Take care of your match, Anerley.  These palm groves go up like a powder magazine if you set them alight.  Bye-bye.”  The two men crawled under their mosquito-nets and sank instantly into the easy sleep of those whose lives are spent in the open.

Young Anerley stood with his back against a palm tree and his briar between his lips, thinking over the advice which he had received.  After all, they were the heads of the profession, these men, and it was not for him, the newcomer, to reform their methods.  If they served their papers in this fashion, then he must do the same.  They had at least been frank and generous in teaching him the rules of the game.  If it was good enough for them it was good enough for him.

It was a broiling afternoon, and those thin frills of foam round the black, glistening necks of the Nile boulders looked delightfully cool and alluring.  But it would not be safe to bathe for some hours to come.  The air shimmered and vibrated over the baking stretch of sand and rock.  There was not a breath of wind, and the droning and piping of the insects inclined one for sleep.  Somewhere above a hoopoe was calling.  Anerley knocked out his ashes, and was turning towards his couch, when his eye caught something moving in the desert to the south.  It was a horseman riding towards them as swiftly as the broken ground would permit.  A messenger from the army, thought Anerley; and then, as he watched, the sun suddenly struck the man on the side of the head, and his chin flamed into gold.  There could not be two horsemen with beards of such a colour.  It was Merryweather, the engineer, and he was returning.  What on earth was he returning for?  He had been so keen to see the general, and yet he was coming back with his mission unaccomplished.  Was it that his pony was hopelessly foundered?  It seemed to be moving well.  Anerley picked up Mortimer’s binoculars, and a foam-bespattered horse and a weary