Tom looked up to where his uncle was pointing, above his head, and saw the wire of an electric bell twisted round a bracket on the wall. He got up and pressed the b.u.t.ton, and the major-domo appeared.

"Tub, Saladin," said the major. "And look here, this is my nephew; put him up a bed and do him well."

"All right, sah! all same for one," returned the negro cheerfully.

In a few moments the major could be heard splashing and gasping in the next room, and ere long he returned in mufti, looking cool and comfortable in a suit of white ducks and a silk c.u.mmerbund. He asked the doctor to stay to dinner, and Tom sat listening eagerly to his seniors' conversation, and admiring his uncle's thorough grasp of even the minutest details of the expedition.

It was to set out, he learned, in three or four days' time, some three hundred and fifty strong, from Port Florence, and was to cross the Nyanza in steam launches. The only Europeans besides the major and Dr.

O'Brien were Captain Lister and a subaltern, the non-commissioned officers being trustworthy Soudanese. Their objective was the village of a petty chief, about a hundred and fifty miles west of the Nyanza, who had revolted against British authority, and in concert with the remnants of an old Arab slave-dealing gang had raided his more peaceful neighbours. In the course of subsequent proceedings he had treacherously killed a British officer, and a punitive expedition became inevitable. The greater part of the military forces of the Protectorate were engaged in police work on the north-eastern frontier; but they were hastily recalled, and within a month, thanks to Major Burnaby's energy, the punitive column was ready to start. The stores for the expedition were collected at rail-head, and the major had been very busy day and night in getting them up from the coast, and seeing that everything possible, to the smallest detail, was done to secure the safety and success of the column.

After the doctor had gone, the major sat for some minutes silently puffing his pipe, while Tom nervously turned over the leaves of a month-old copy of the Times. At length the major laid down his pipe, cleared his throat, and began:

"Look here, Tom, few words are best. I suppose you realize by this time that you did a very foolish thing in coming out. What's more, it was a very inconsiderate thing. Here am I, with my hands full, toiling day and night to straighten things out,--and you must come and complicate matters just as I'm driving in the last peg, and without a moment's warning; in fact, making an attempt to force my hand! It was silly, it was wrong, to say nothing of the waste of time when you ought to be working at your profession, and the waste of money which you know as well as I do you can't afford. There'd be a glimmer of excuse, perhaps, if I could make any use of you, and I'd stretch a point to do so; but it's entirely out of the question. I can't find any reason, not even a pretence of one, for bringing you in. There is really nothing for you to do. So there is no help for it, and, as you can't possibly stay here, and are bound to go back, you may as well go at once. If you really and seriously think of choosing Africa for your career, there'll be plenty of time to talk about that when you've finished your training; and we can go into it when I get home."

The major relit his pipe, and hid his sympathetic features behind a cloud of smoke. After a moment Tom said quietly:

"I'm sorry, Uncle. I didn't see it from that point of view. I was an a.s.s. I'll go home and do my best."

"That's right, my boy," said the major heartily. "It's no good crying over spilt milk. I was young myself once; we all have to buy our experience, and 'pon my word I think you're getting yours pretty cheap after all."

He rose from his chair, and put his hand kindly on Tom's shoulder. "I'm going to turn in," he added; "have to be up at dawn. Call Saladin if you want anything. Good-night!"

During the next few days Tom almost forgot his disappointment, so much was he interested in watching the final preparations. There were boxes and bales everywhere. Empty kerosene cans were shipped on the launches, to be filled with water when the force began its land march. Boxes of ammunition, tin-lined biscuit-boxes of provisions, a tent or two for the officers, canvas bags and smaller cases for the medical stores, were carried on board on the backs of stalwart negroes, and all their friends and neighbours crowded around, gesticulating frantically in their excitement. It was all so novel that Tom had scarcely a minute to reflect on his hard luck; and, indeed, so far from sulking, he sought every opportunity of making himself useful, and was well pleased when he chanced to overhear his uncle one evening say to Dr. O'Brien:

"'Pon my word, Corney, I'm sorry we can't take the boy. I like his spirit. He's willing to turn his hand to anything, and has relieved me of quite a number of odd jobs during the past few days. But I don't see how we can possibly take him, and in any case he will be better at home."

The last day came. It was a fine Thursday in May. There was a crispness in the air that set the pulses beating faster and made life seem worth living indeed. Everything was done. The stores were well stowed on board, the fighting-men and carriers had answered the roll-call, and the major, with a final survey, had a.s.sured himself that nothing had been overlooked. The launches had been getting up steam for an hour or more, and the officers, having seen their men on board, were standing on the quay to take a farewell of the little group of Europeans a.s.sembled to wish them G.o.d-speed.

The whole population of the place seemed to have gathered to witness the start. Arabs in their long garments, turbaned Indians, and more or less naked negroes were mingled in one dense ma.s.s along the sh.o.r.e. Some of the natives had donned their best finery for the occasion. One old fellow appeared in a battered chimney-pot hat and a tattered shirt that reached his knees, with a red umbrella tucked under his arm. Others displayed plush jackets of vivid hue, and wore coral charms and bracelets round their necks and arms. Women with little brown babies filled the air with their babblement, and the noise was diversified now and then by the squealing grunt of camels and the whinnying of mules.

Tom was the last to grasp his uncle's hand.

"Good-bye, Uncle!" he said. "Good luck to you!"

"Good-bye, my boy! Sorry you aren't with us. But cheer up; please G.o.d, we'll have a good time together yet."

Then the gangway was removed, and, amid British cheers and African whoops, the launches puffed and snorted and glided away over the brownish waters of the great lake.

Tom heaved a sigh as he turned away.

"Well, well, that's over," said Mr. Barkworth, walking with Lilian by his side. "We haven't seen much of you, sir, since we came up on Monday. Never fear, your uncle will pull it off. I remember, now, at Calcutta, a year or two ago, he said to me: 'Barkworth, I'm going downhill fast. Here am I at forty-six the wretchedest dog in the service, with nothing but half-pay and idleness in front of me.' 'Cheer up,' said I, 'you'll get your chance. There is a tide in the affairs of men, you know. You'll be a K.C.B. yet.' I knew it, h'm!"

"I'd give anything to have gone too," said Tom.

Lilian looked amazed and shocked.

"Why, Mr. Burnaby, you might get killed!" she said.

Tom laughed.

"I'd chance that. Besides, I might not. Anyhow, it's better to be killed striking a blow for England than to peg out with pneumonia in a four-poster, or die of a brick off a chimney."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Barkworth. "Pure fudge! Gordon said something of the same sort to me once; I knew him--a sort of forty-eleventh cousin. 'Barkworth,' he said, 'Heaven is as near the hot desert as the cool church at home.' Now I'm what they call a globe-trotter, through this restless girl of mine here, and I tell you that when my time comes I shan't rest comfortably unless I'm laid in the old churchyard at home.

H'm! But this won't do. We aren't skull and crossbones yet. Come and dine with us to-night, Mr. Burnaby; seven sharp; you'll meet a padre too; one of the White Fathers, you understand. Knows every inch of the country, and speaks the language like a native--only better. Lilian stayed for a year with some friends of his in France, and we brought out a letter of introduction. A fine fellow, this White Father--no white feather about him, ha! ha! You take me, eh! Well, then, we'll see you at seven. Mind you--seven sharp!"

CHAPTER II

Mbutu

Mbutu--Hatching a Plot--The Padre--A Consultation

The sun had set, and Tom was sitting in his uncle's bungalow, ruminating. He had changed his clothes in preparation for dining with Mr. Barkworth; but there was still nearly an hour to spare, so he sat back in his chair with his hands in his pockets and stared at his toes.

In a few more hours he would be jolting down to Mombasa. There was no getting over that. He pictured his uncle penetrating the forest at the head of his men; the cautious advance; the first sight of the enemy. He heard in imagination the rattle of musketry, and the major's ringing voice giving orders and cheering the combatants. And while these stirring events were in progress, he himself was to be condemned to inactivity on a pa.s.senger steamer! Tom was. .h.i.t harder than he had believed.

Sitting brooding on these things, and feeling the reaction doubly after the excitement of the past few days, he suddenly became fully conscious of a sensation that had for some time been creeping over him unawares.

He felt that he was not alone, that someone was looking at him. There was no one with him in the room, he knew; no one in the bungalow even, except the grave, silent Indian servant, who was the only member of the household left behind.

"Rummy feeling this," said Tom to himself, pinching himself to make sure that he was awake. He jumped up and switched on the electric-light, and in the first flash thought he saw a black face pressed against the narrow window-panes. Instantly he ran to the door, flung it open, and returned in a moment with a woolly-pated black boy in his grasp.

Gripping him firmly with one hand, he locked and bolted the door with the other, then loosed his hold and stood with arms akimbo.

"Now then, who are you? What does this mean?" he said.

The boy stuck his arms akimbo in imitation of Tom, grinned, and chortled rather than said:

"Me run away!"

"Oh indeed! Run away, have you? And where from, may I ask?"

"Me Mbutu, sah! Mbutu servant dago man; sah knock him down; me no go back--no, no; me hide; now me heah."

He chortled again with a childish air of satisfaction which made Tom smile.

"Oh! So you're the beggar I saved from the whip, are you? Well, my boy, I'm very glad to have helped you; but really I don't see what more I can do for you. Hungry, eh?"

"No, no."

"Well, then, what do you want?"

"Me and you, sah; you me fader and mudder, sah; all same for one; me stop, long stop."

"Oh, come! it's kind of you to say so, but I'm off to Mombasa to-morrow, and then home--over the big water, you understand. Don't want to adopt anyone yet, and can't afford a tiger."

The boy's face fell. Then he clasped his hands and poured out a rapid torrent of the queerest English, evidently an account of his career.

Tom made out that he belonged to an ancient Bahima tribe, and was the son of a chief whose village had been raided by Arabs, all his people being killed or carried off as slaves. The boy himself, after two years of captivity, had escaped, through a series of lucky accidents, to British territory, and had since been more or less of an Ishmael, picking up a precarious living in doing odd jobs about the European bungalows. His last master had treated him with a brutality that recalled his years of captivity with the Arab slavers. Tom's short way with the bully had won the boy's unbounded admiration and grat.i.tude. He had remained in hiding until he knew that the Portuguese had taken his departure, and then had felt that he could not do better than attach himself to his benefactor.