The man was ill at ease, and the sight of young faces and the sound of laughter vexed him with a sense of his eccentricity.  He could never, like George, take the world as he found it.  At home he was the slave of his own incapacity; now he was the slave of memories.  He had come out on an errand, with a chance to recover his lost self-respect, and lo! he was as far as ever from attainment.  His lost capacity for action was not to be found here, in the midst of this petty diplomacy and inglorious ease.

From the verandah a broad belt of lawn ran down to the edge of the north road.  It lay shining in the moonlight like a field of snow with the highway a dark ribbon beyond it.  Thwaite and Lewis walked down to the gate talking casually, and at the gate they stopped and looked down on the town.  It lay a little to the left, the fort rising black before it, and the road ending in a patch of shade which was the old town gate.  The night was very still, cool airs blew noiselessly from the hills, and a jackal barked hoarsely in some far-off thicket.

The men hung listlessly on the gate, drinking in the cool air and watching the blue cigar smoke wreathe and fade.  Suddenly down the road there came the sound of wheels.

“That’s a tonga,” said Thwaite.  “Wonder who it is.”

“Do tongas travel this road?” Lewis asked.

“Oh yes, they go ten miles up to the foot of the rocks.  We use them for sending up odds and ends to the garrisons.  After that coolies are the only conveyance.  Gad, I believe this thing is going to stop.”

The thing in question, which was driven by a sepoy in bright yellow pyjamas, stopped at the Logans’ gate.  A peevish voice was heard giving directions from within.

“It sounds like Holm,” said Thwaite, walking up to it, “and upon my soul it is Holm.  What on earth are you doing here, my dear fellow?”

“Is that you, Thwaite?” said the voice.  “I wish you’d help me out.  I want Logan to give me a bed for the night.  I’m infernally ill.”

Lewis looked within and saw a pale face and bloodshot eyes which did not belie the words.

“What is it?” said Thwaite.  “Fever or anything smashed?”

“I’ve got a bullet in my leg which has got to be cut out.  Got it two days ago when I was out shooting.  Some natives up in the rocks did it, I fancy.  Lord, how it hurts.”  And the unhappy man groaned as he tried to move.

“That’s bad,” said Thwaite sympathetically.  “The Logans have got a dance on, but we’ll look after you all right.  How did you leave things in Forza?”

“Bad.  I oughtn’t to be here, but Andy insisted.  He said I would only get worse and crock entirely.  Things look a bit wild up there just now.  There has been a confounded lot of rifle-stealing, and the Bada-Mawidi are troublesome.  However, I hope it’s only their fun.”

“I hope so,” said Thwaite.  “You know Haystoun, don’t you?”