The hills of False Bay were just dissolving into those of
fairyland when I heard footsteps on the sand outside, and the clink of our
couplings.
"Stop that!" snapped Hooper, without raising his head from his work. "It's
those dirty little Malay boys, you see: they're always playing with the
trucks...."
"Don't be hard on 'em. The railway's a general refuge in Africa," I
replied.
"'Tis--up-country at any rate. That reminds me," he felt in his waistcoat-
pocket, "I've got a curiosity for you from Wankies--beyond Buluwayo. It's
more of a souvenir perhaps than----"
"The old hotel's inhabited," cried a voice. "White men from the language.
Marines to the front! Come on, Pritch. Here's your Belmont. Wha--i--i!"
The last word dragged like a rope as Mr. Pyecroft ran round to the open
door, and stood looking up into my face. Behind him an enormous Sergeant
of Marines trailed a stalk of dried seaweed, and dusted the sand nervously
from his fingers.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "I thought the _Hierophant_ was down
the coast?"
"We came in last Tuesday--from Tristan D'Acunha--for overhaul, and we
shall be in dockyard 'ands for two months, with boiler-seatings."
"Come and sit down," Hooper put away the file.
"This is Mr. Hooper of the Railway," I exclaimed, as Pyecroft turned to
haul up the black-moustached sergeant.
"This is Sergeant Pritchard, of the _Agaric_, an old shipmate," said he.
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