The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1896-10-02
THE THREE :.
CORRESPONDENTS
Az OF
9 CONAN DoYLE. HI SOUDAN CAMPAIGN
Copyright. 1896. by A. Conan Doyle.)

his water bottle over the little upward
pointing pegs which bristled from the
trunk. "As a shade tree, however, it isn't
an unqualified success. Curious that in the
universal adoption of means TO ends some
thing a little less fimsy could not have
been devised for the tropics"
Like the banyan In India"
"Or the fine d trees in Ashantee,
where the whole regiment could picnic un-
der the shade"
The teak tree isn't bad in Burmah.
either. BY Jove. the baccy has all come
loose in the saddle bag! That long-cut
mixture smokes rather hot for this climate.
How about the baggles. Anerley?"
They'll be here in five minutes"
Down the winding path which curved
among the rocks the little train of baggage
camels was daintily picking its way. They
came mincing and undulating along, turn
ing their heads slowly from side to side
with the air of self-conscious woman. In
front rode the three Berberee body-serv-
ants upon donkeys. and behind walked the
Arab camel boys. They had been travelling
for nine long hours, ever since the first
rising of the moon, at the weary camel
drag of two and q half miles an hour, but
now they frightened, both beasts and men,
at the sight of the grove and the riderless
hOrSeS. In n rev minutes the longs were
unstrapped. the animals tethered, n fire
lighted, fresh water carried up from the
river and each camel provided with his own
little heap of tibbin laid in the center OF
the tablecloth, without which no well-bred
Arabian will condescend to feed. The daz-
Zling light without, the subdued half-tones
within, the green palm-fronds outlined
against the deep-bIue sky, the fitting ST.
lent-footed Arab servants, the cracking OF
sticks, the reek of a lighting fire, the placid
supercilious heads of the camels. they, all
come back in their dreams to those wHro.
have known them.
Scott was breaking eggs into a pan and
rolling out a love-song in his rich. deep
voice. Anerley. with his head and two
arms buried into a deal packing-case, was
working his way through strata of timed
soups, bully beef, ported chicken and sar-
dimes to reach the jam which lay beneath.
The conscientious Mortimer, with his note
book upon his knee, was jotting down what
the railway engineer had told him at the
line end the day before. Suddenly he raised
his eyes and saw the man himself on his
chestnut pony. dipping and rising over the
broken ground.
"Hullo, here's Merryweather!"
"a pretty lather his pony is in! He's
had her at that hand gallop by hours by
the look of her. Hullo, M~erryweather.
hullo!"
The engineer, a small, compact man.
with a pointed red beard, had made as
though he would ride past their camp
without word or halt. Now he swerved.
and, easing his pony down to a canter. he
headed her towards them.
For Gods sake, a drink he croaked.
MY tongue is stuck to the roof OF my
mouth"
Mortimer ran with the water bottle,
Scott with the whisky flask. and Anerley
with the tin pannikin. The engineer drank
until his breath failed him.
well, l must be off, said he, striking
the drops from his red mustache,
ANY news"
"A hitch in the railway construction. /
must see the general. It's the devil not
having a telegraph
Anything we can report?" Out came
three notebooks.
I'm tell you after I've seen the gem
eral.'
ANY Dervishes?"
THE usual SLAVES. Hud-up, jimmy!
Goodbye"
With d soft thudding upon the sand and
a clatter among the stones, the weary pony
was off on his journey once more.
ITO be Continued Tomorrow