your peaceful camp.”
“Oh, we’re not nervous. The people who attacked you belong in all probability right the other end of the country,” she answered, easily.
“I sent over to Gushki to let the political agent know about it,” said Upward. “Likely they’ll send back a brace of Levy sowars to have a look round. Not that that’ll do any good, for these darned ‘catch-’em-alive-ohs’ are all tarred with the same brush. They’re raised in the same country, you see.”
“Seems to me a right casual section this same country,” said Campian. “You are all never tired of laying down what entirely unreliable villains these border tribes are, yet you simply put yourselves at their mercy. I’ll be bound to say, for instance, that there’s no such thing as a watch kept over this camp at night, or any other.”
“No, there isn’t Tinkles here, though, would pretty soon let us know if any one came too close.”
“Yes, but not until they were on you. Say four or five like those who tackled me—or even more—made up their minds to come for you some night, what then? Why, they’d be in the tents hacking you to bits before you had time to move a finger.”
“Ghazis don’t go to work that way, Campian. They come for you in the open, and never break out with the premeditation a rush upon a camp would involve.”
“I’ve often thought the same,” struck in Nesta. “I get quite nervous sometimes, lying awake at night. Every sound outside makes me start. Fancy nothing between you and all that may be in that horrible darkness, but a strip of canvas. And the light seems to make it worse. I can never shake off the idea that I can be seen.”
“Why don’t you put out the light then, Miss Cheriton?”
“Because I’m more frightened still to be in the dark. Ah now—you’re laughing at me”—she broke off, in a pretty gesture of protest.
The stranger was contemplating her narrowly, without seeming to. Good specimen of her type was his decision, but these fair haired, blue-eyed girls, though pretty enough as pictures, have seldom any depth. Self conscious at every turn, though not aware of it, or, at any rate of showing that she was. Pretty? Oh, yes, no mistake about that—knows what suits her, too.
Whether this diagnosis was entirely accurate remains to be seen—that its latter part was, a glance at Nesta left no doubt. She was attired in white and light blue, which matched admirably her eyes and golden hair, and she looked wonderfully attractive. The suspicion of sunbrown which darkened her complexion had the effect of setting off the vivid whiteness of her even teeth when she smiled. And then her whole face would light up.
“What would you like to do this afternoon, old chap?” said Upward, as tiffin over, the bearer placed the cheroot box on the table. “Don’t feel up to going after chikór, I suppose?”
“Well, I don’t know. I think I do. But I left my shot gun down at Chotiali with my other things.”
“You’d much better sit still and keep yourself quiet for the rest of the day, Mr. Campian,” warned Mrs. Upward. “A nasty fall on the head isn’t a thing to be trifled with, especially in hot climates. I’ve seen too much of that sort of thing in my time.”
But the warning was overruled. Campian declared himself sufficiently recovered, provided there was no hard climbing to be done. Tiffin had set him up entirely.
“Do just as you like, old chap,” said Upward. “You can use my gun. I don’t care about chikór. They are the rottenest form of game bird I know. Won’t rise, for one thing.”
“Let’s all go,” suggested Lily. “We can keep behind. And we shall see how many misses Mr. Campian makes,” she added, with her natural cheekiness.
“It’s hardly fair,” objected the proposed victim—“I, the only gunner, too—Why, all this ‘gallery’ is bound to get on my nerves.”
“Never mind—you can put it down to your fall, if you do miss a lot,” suggested Nesta.
“Well, we’d better start soon, and not go too far either, for I shouldn’t wonder if this evening turned out as bad as last,” said Upward, rising from table. “Khola—Call Bhallu Khan.”
The bearer replied that he was in front of the tent.
“So this is the man whose sharp hearing was the saving of my life?” said Campian, as the head forester extended his salaam to him—And he put out his hand.
The forester, a middle-aged Pathân of the Kakar tribe, was a fine specimen of his race. He looked picturesque enough in his white loose garments, his head crowned with the “Kulla,” or conical cap, round which was wound a snowy turban. He had eyes and teeth which a woman might have envied, and as he grasped the hand extended to him, the expression of his face was pleasing and attractive in the extreme.
“By Jove, Upward, this man is as different a type to the ruffians who came for me last night as the proverbial chalk and cheese simile,” remarked Campian, as they started for the shooting place. “They were hook-nosed scoundrels with long hair and the expression of the devil, whereas this chap looks as if he couldn’t hurt a fly. He has an awfully good face.”
“Oh, he has. Still, with Mohamedans you never can be absolutely certain. Any question of fanaticism or semi-religious war, and they’re all alike. We’ve had too many instances of that.”
“Oh, come now, Ernest. You mustn’t class good old Bhallu Khan with that sort of native,” struck in his wife. “If there was any sort of rising I believe he’d stand by us with his life.”
“I believe so too. Still, as I say, with Mohamedans you can never tell. Look, Campian, this is where we found you last night. Here’s where you were lying, and here’s where the water came up to during the night.”
Campian looked somewhat grave as he contemplated the jagged edge of sticks and straws which demarcated the water-line, and remembered that awful advancing wave bellowing down upon him.
“Yes—It was a near thing,” he said—“a very near thing.”
But a word from the forester dispelled all such weighty reflections, and that word was “Chikór!”
In and out among the grass and stones the birds were running—running. The more they were shouted at the more they ran. At last several of them rose. It was a long shot, but down came one.
This was repeated again and again. All the shots were long shots, and there were as many misses as birds. There were plenty of birds, but they persistently forebore to rise.
“Now you see why I’m not keen on chikór shooting, old chap,” said Upward, as after a couple of hours this sport was voted hardly worth while. And subsequently Bhallu Khan expressed the opinion to his master that the strange sahib did not seem much of a shikari. He might have made quite a heavy bag—there were the birds, right under his feet, but he would not shoot—he would wait for them to rise—and they invariably rose much too far off to fire at with any chance of bringing them down.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст
