The speaker pushed back his helmet to wipe his forehead.  He was very much in earnest.  The African sun blazing down on his bronzed face revealed that.  The blue eyes glittered out of the lean, tanned countenance.  They were full of resolution, indomitable resolution, and good British pluck.

As the little company of black men swung by, with the rhythmic pad of their bare feet, he suddenly snatched out his sword and waved it high in the smiting sunlight.

“Halt!” he cried.

They stood as one man, all gleaming eyes and gleaming teeth.  They were all a good head taller than the Englishman who commanded them, but they looked upon him with reverence, as a being half divine.

“Now, cheer, you beggars, cheer!” he cried.  “Three cheers for the King!  Hip, hip—­”

“Hooray!” came in hoarse chorus from the assembled troop.  It sounded like a war cry.

“Hip, hip—­” yelled the Englishman again.

And again “Hooray!” came the answering yell.

“Hip, hip—­” for the third time from the man with the sword.

And for the third time, “Hooray!” from the deep-chested troopers halted in the blazing sunshine.

The British officer turned about with an odd smile quivering at the corners of his mouth.  There was an almost maternal tenderness about it.

He sheathed his sword.

“You beauties!” he murmured softly.  “You beauties!” Then aloud, “Very good, sergeant!  Dismiss them!  Come along, Monty!  Let’s go and have a drink.”

He linked his arm in that of the silent onlooker, and drew him into the little hut of rough-hewn timber which was dignified by the name, printed in white letters over the door, of “Officers’ Quarters.”

“What do you think of them?” he demanded, as they entered.  “Aren’t they soldiers?  Aren’t they men?”

“I think, Duncannon,” the other answered slowly, “that you have worked wonders.”

“Ah, you’ll tell the Chief so?  Won’t he be astounded?  He swore I should never do it; declared they’d knife me if I tried to hammer any discipline into them.  Much he knows about it!  Good old Chief!”

He laughed boyishly, and again wiped his hot face.

“On my soul, Monty, it’s been no picnic,” he declared.  “But I’d have sacrificed five years’ pay, and my step as well, gladly—­gladly—­sooner than have missed it.  Here you are, old boy!  Drink!  Drink to the latest auxiliary force in the British Empire!  Damn’ thirsty climate, this.”

He tossed his helmet aside, and sat down on the edge of the table—­a lithe, spare figure, brimming with active strength.

“I’ve literally coaxed those chaps into shape,” he declared.  “Oh, yes, I’ve bullied ’em too—­cursed ’em right and left; but they never turned a hair—­knew it was all for their good, and took it lying down.  I’ve taught ’em to wash too, you know.  That was the hardest job of all.  I knocked one great brute all round the parade-ground one day, just to show I was in earnest.  He went off afterwards, and blubbed like a baby.  But in the evening I found him squatting outside, quite naked, and as clean as a whistle.  To quote the newspapers, I was profoundly touched.  But I didn’t show it, you bet.  I whacked him on the shoulder, and told him to be a man.”