“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’t throw so devilish high.  I always aim at a man’s toes if I want to stimulate his digestion.  O Lord, there’s our kettle gone!” With a boom like a dinner-gong a Remington bullet had passed through the kettle, and a cloud of steam hissed up from the fire.  A wild shout came from the rocks above.

“The idiots think that they have blown us up.  They’ll rush us now, as sure as fate; then it will be our turn to lead.  Got your revolver, Anerley?”

“I have this double-barrelled fowling-piece.”

“Sensible man!  It’s the best weapon in the world at this sort of rough-and-tumble work.  What cartridges?”