“I should expect to meet Mr. Orme if I landed on the moon,” I replied.

“Er—­Captain Orme,” murmured Adjutant Williams to me gently.

So then my preacher had turned captain since I saw him last!

“You see, Stevenson,” went on Williams easily, “Captain Orme was formerly with the British Army.  He is traveling in this country for a little sport, but the old ways hang to him.  He brings letters to our Colonel, who’s off up river, and meantime.  I’m trying to show him what I can of our service.”

“So good of you to bring Captain Orme here, Major.  I’m sure he will join us to-night?” Kitty motioned toward the dancing pavilion, now well under way.  Orme smiled and bowed, and declared himself most happy.  Thus in a few moments he was of our party.  I could not avoid the feeling that it was some strange fate which continually brought us two together.

“The Army’s rotten for want of service,” grumbled Williams, following out his own pet hobby.  “Nothing in the world to do for our fellows here.  Sport?  Why, Captain Orme, we couldn’t show you a horse race where I’d advise you to bet a dollar.  The fishing doesn’t carry, and the shooting is pretty much gone, even if it were the season.  Outside of a pigeon match or so, this Post is stagnant.  We dance, and that’s all.  Bah!”

“Why, Major, you old ingrate,” reproved Kitty Stevenson.  “If you talk that way we’ll not let you on the floor to-night.”

“You spoke of pigeon shooting,” said Orme lazily, “Blue rocks, I imagine?”

“No,” said Williams, “Natives—­we use the wild birds.  Thousands of them around here, you know.  Ever do anything at it?”

“Not in this country,” replied Orme.  “Sometimes I have taken on a match at Hurlingham; and we found the Egyptian pigeons around Cairo not bad.”

“Would you like to have a little match at our birds?”

“I shouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, you’ll be welcome!  We’ll take your money away from you.  There is Bardine—­or say, Major Westover.  Haskins of the Sixth got eighty-five out of his last hundred.  Once he made it ninety-two, but that’s above average, of course.”

“You interest me,” said Orme, still lazily.  “For the honor of my country I shouldn’t mind a go with one of your gentlemen.  Make it at a hundred, for what wagers you like.”

“And when?”

“To-morrow afternoon, if you say; I’m not stopping long, I am afraid.  I’m off up river soon.”

“Let’s see,” mused Williams.  “Haskins is away, and I doubt if Westover could come, for he’s Officer of the Day, also bottle-washer.  And—­”

“How about my friend Mr. Cowles?” asked Orme.  “My acquaintance with him makes me think he’d take on any sort of sporting proposition.  Do you shoot, sir?”

“All Virginians do,” I answered.  And so I did in the field, although I had never shot or seen a pigeon match in all my life.

“Precisely.  Mrs. Stevenson, will you allow this sort of talk?”