had a white woman made her home at the Residency, and it changed things a little.
She was at times an embarrassment.
When Fubini, the witch-doctor of the Akasava, despatched five maidens to change Sandi's wicked heart—Sanders had sent Fubini to the Village of Irons for six months for preaching unauthorized magic—they came, in the language of Bones, "doocedly undressed," and Patricia had beaten a hurried retreat.
She was sometimes an anxiety, as I have already shown, but was never a nuisance. She brought to headquarters an aroma of English spring, a clean fragrance that refreshed the heat-jaded Commissioner and her brother, but which had no perceptible influence upon Bones.
That young officer called for her one hot morning, and Hamilton, sprawling on a big cane chair drawn to the shadiest and breeziest end of the verandah, observed that Bones carried a wooden box, a drawing-board, a pad of paper, two pencils imperfectly concealed behind his large ear, and a water-bottle.
"Shop!" said Hamilton lazily. "Forward, Mr. Bones—what can we do for you this morning?"
Bones shaded his eyes and peered into the cool corner.
"Talkin' in your sleep, dear old Commander," he said pleasantly, "dreamin' of the dear old days beyond recall."
He struck an attitude and lifted his unmusical voice—
"When life was gay, heigho!
Tum tum te tay, heigho!
Oh, tiddly umpty humpty umty do,
When life was gay—dear old officer—heigho!"
Patricia Hamilton stepped out to the verandah in alarm.
"Oh, please, don't make that hooting noise," she appealed to her brother. "I'm writing–"
"Don't be afraid," said Hamilton, "it was only Bones singing. Do it again, Bones, Pat didn't hear you."
Bones stood erect, his hand to his white helmet.
"Come aboard, my lady," he said.
"I won't keep you a minute, Bones," said the girl, and disappeared into the house.
"What are you doing this morning?" asked Hamilton, gazing with pardonable curiosity at the box and drawing-board.
"Polishin' up my military studies with Miss Hamilton's kind assistance—botany and applied science, sir," said Bones briskly. "Field fortifications, judgin' distance, strategy, Bomongo grammar, field cookery an' tropical medicines."
"What has poor little making-up-company-accounts done?" asked Hamilton, and Bones blushed.
"Dear old officer," he begged, "I'll tackle that little job as soon as I get back. I tried to do 'em this mornin' an was four dollars out—it's the regimental cash account that's wrong. People come in and out helpin' themselves, and I positively can't keep track of the money."
"As I'm the only person with the key of the regimental cash-box, I suppose you mean–?"
Bones raised his hand.
"I make no accusations, dear old feller—it's a painful subject. We all have those jolly old moments of temptation. I tackle the accounts to-night, sir. You mustn't forget that I've a temperament. I'm not like you dear old wooden-heads–"
"Oh, shut up," said the weary Hamilton. "So long as you're going to do a bit of study, it's all right."
"Now, Bones," said Patricia, appearing on the scene, "have you got the sandwiches?"
Bones made terrifying and warning grimaces.
"Have you got the board to lay the cloth and the paper to cover it, and the chocolates and the cold tea?"
Bones frowned, and jerked his head in an agony of warning.
"Come on, then," said the unconscious betrayer of Lieutenant Tibbetts. "Good-bye, dear."
"Why 'good-bye,' dear old Hamilton's sister?" asked Bones.
She looked at him scornfully and led the way.
"Don't forget the field fortifications," called Hamilton after them; "they eat nicely between slices of strategy."
The sun was casting long shadows eastward when they returned. They had not far to come, for the place they had chosen for their picnic was well within the Residency reservation, but Bones had been describing on his way back one of the remarkable powers he possessed, namely, his ability to drag the truth from reluctant and culpable natives. And every time he desired to emphasize the point he would stop, lower all his impedimenta to the ground, cluttering up the landscape with picnic-box, drawing-board, sketching-blocks and the numerous bunches of wild flowers he had culled at her request, and press his argument with much palm-punching.
He stopped for the last time on the very edge of the barrack square, put down his cargo and proceeded to demolish the doubt she had unwarily expressed.
"That's where you've got an altogether erroneous view of me, dear old sister," he said triumphantly. "I'm known up an' down the river as the one man that you can't deceive. Go up and ask the Bomongo, drop in on the Isisi, speak to the Akasava, an' what will they say? They'll say, 'No, ma'am, there's no flies on jolly old Bones—not on your life, Harriet!'"
"Then they would be very impertinent," smiled Pat.
"Ask Sanders (God bless him!). Ask Ham. Ask–" he was going on enthusiastically.
"Are you going to camp here, or are you coming in?" she challenged.
Bones gathered up his belongings, never ceasing to talk.
"Fellers like me, dear young friend, make the Empire—paint the whole bally thing red, white an' blue—'unhonoured an' unsung, until the curtain's rung, the boys that made the Empire and the Navy.'"
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