3
ences over the beastly leering eyes of one of those crocodiles on the lookout for grub. Ugh! The beasts! Now, what could crocodiles be made for?--Oh, here's somebody coming."
For all at once, faintly heard, the fag-end of the "British Grenadiers," whistled very much out of tune, came floating in at the window.
"Peter Pegg, by all that's lucky!"
The footsteps of some one evidently heavily laden came nearer and nearer, till, just as they were about to pass the young officer's quarters, the occupier screwed-up his lips and gave vent to a low, clear note and its apparent echo, which sounded like the cry of some night-bird.
The next moment there was the sound as of a couple of iron buckets being set down upon the ground, followed by the clang, clang of the handles; a dark shadow crossed the window, and a voice exclaimed:
"You call, sir?"
"That you, Pete?"
"Yes, sir."
"What are you doing?"
"Fatigue-work, sir. Got to take these 'ere buckets round to cook's quarters."
"Can you see a letter lying out there anywhere?"
"For the mail, sir?"
"Mail! No, stupid! A piece of notepaper."
"With writing on it, sir?"
"Of course."
"No, sir.--Oh yes, here it is, stuck in the flowers."
"Well, bring it to me."
"Can't, sir, without treading on the beds."
"Then bring it round to the door."
There was a few moments' intense silence, during which, in the tropic heat, it seemed as if Nature was plunged in her deepest sleep. Then came a renewal of the footsteps, a sharp tap upon the door, a loud "Come in!" and a very closely cropped and shaven, sun-browned face appeared, its owner clad in clean, white military flannel, drawing himself up stiffly as he held out the missive he was bearing.
"Letter, sir."