I attached my last bottle of Scotch to the messenger and sallied forth to mount a guard, none too easy a job, as the Army had gone to celebrate somebody’s birthday in the neighbouring village.  However, I discovered one remaining trooper lying in the shade of a loquat-tree.  He was sick—­dying, he assured me; but I persuaded him to postpone his demise for at least half-an-hour, requisitioned his physician (the local witch doctor) and two camp followers, and, leaving my cook-boy to valet them, dashed to my hut to make my own toilet.  A glimpse through the cane mats five minutes later showed me that our visitors had arrived.

A fruity German officer in full gala rig (white gloves and all) was cruising about on mule-back before our camp, trying to discover whether it was inhabited or not.  We let him cruise for a quarter of an hour without taking any steps to enlighten him.  Then, at a given signal, Frobisher, caparisoned in every fal-lal he could collect, issued from his hut, and I turned out the improvised guard.  A stirring spectacle; and it had the desired effect, for the German afterwards admitted to being deeply impressed, especially by the local wizard, who paraded in his professional regalia, and, coming to cross-purposes with his rifle, bayoneted himself and wept bitterly.  The ceremonies over and the casualty removed we adjourned to Frobisher’s kya, broached the whisky and sat about in solemn state, stiff with accoutrements, sodden with perspiration.  Our visitor kept the Red, White and Black flying on a tree over the border, he explained; this was his annual ceremonial call.  He sighed and brushed the sweat from his nose with the tips of a white glove—­“the weather was warm, nicht wahr?” I admitted that we dabbled in flag-flying ourselves and that the weather was all he claimed for it (which effort cost me about four pounds in weight).  Tongues lolling, flanks heaving, we discussed the hut-tax, the melon crop, the monkey-nut market, the nigger—­and the weather again.

Suddenly Frobisher sprang up, cast loose the shackles of his Sam Browne, hurled it into a corner, and began tearing at his tunic hooks.  I stared at him in amazement—­such manners before visitors.  But our immaculate guest leapt to his feet with a roar like a freed lion, and, stripping his white gloves, flung them after the Sam Browne, whereupon a fury of undressing came upon us.  Helmets, belts, tunics, shirts were piled into the corner, until at length we stood in our underclothes, laughing and unashamed.  After that we got on famously, that Teuton and we, and three days later, when he swarmed aboard his mule and left home (in pyjamas this time) it was with real regret we waved him farewell.

But not for long.  Within a month we were surprised by a hail from the bush, and there was Otto, mule, pyjamas and all.

“Ullo, ’ullo, ’ullo!” he carolled. “’Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion!  Durn out ze guard!” He roared with laughter, fell off his palfrey and bawled for his batman, who ambled up balancing a square box on his woolly pate.