He picked his way through the camp, stopping only to inquire as to the whereabouts of his boy and McKinnon’s waggon; greeting an acquaintance or two; and refusing a pressing invitation to sup at the waggon of the "wounded bunch," one of whom, an American surgeon on crutches with a bullet lodged in his hip bone, was a very good friend of his.

Bettington had not joined any mess coming down from Salisbury, for he was a fellow of moods and tenses, and constant companionship bored him. Times were when he liked his society high, and times were when he preferred it low, but always he chose to seek and cull it for himself, and for that which was thrust upon him he had no use. He rather estranged people by giving the impression that he believed the world made for the special benefit of Bettington, and nothing in it quite too good for Bettington; but this arrogance of character was more assumed than real; for he had discovered that it rid him of society he did not need, and insured him against intrusion when he wanted to work, or in those dark hours which came to him as to the most self-satisfied of us when he was face to face with the fact that Bettington was no very great chalks after all, and not within a thousand miles of the fine fellow he set out to be originally.

It cannot be pretended, however, that he was suffering from any such mood at this time. Quite the reverse. A man who has potted his lion overnight owns a little secret fountain of vainglory to drink at that will keep him from being thirsty for some time.

He was hungry, however, and hot, and slightly footsore, for he had handed over his borrowed horse to Randal’s messenger and thereafter tramped some miles of bad road with the thermometer at something over a hundred and ten.

As he approached his waggon, he became aware of a woman’s slight graceful figure sitting on a box not far off, with a little child playing at her knees. Her profile etched against the firelight, was one which, though he had only seen it once, he very well remembered. From the shadows came forth his servant, a meek-eyed Makalika scoundrel, anxious to see how his baas would take the information that a lady and her "bebe" were in part possession of his waggon.

"That’s all right, Bat," said Bettington trying to keep an inflection of nobility out of his voice. "Camp my things out under that tree over there, and get me a towel. Which way is the river?" (No outspan is ever very far away from a river.)

"Just over there, my baas."

"Have my supper ready when I come back. I suppose you got some fresh meat and bread in the town?"

"No, my baas," was the modest reply.

"What? The dickens take you--"

"I didn’t know when my baas would be back, my baas."

"Oh! Hel—​p! Get out some bully beef then, you—​you idiot!" Bettington gulped down worse things, wondering gloomily how he was going to suppress the expression of his real opinion of Bat during the rest of the journey, for the boy was a most particular fool and the bane of his life.

Moreover, on returning from his dip with the appetite of a wolf gnawing his vitals, he found that though his blankets had been perfunctorily unrolled under the specified tree, of supper there was no sign. His box of provisions had not been got off the waggon, and there was not so much as a tin of bully in sight!

"Bat!--you—​you bat!" he roared in a terrible voice. But Bat was non est. Wise for once, he had melted away into the night.

"Of all the miserable!" Bettington was obliged to put his pipe into his mouth and bite on that. Bitterly he thought of that invitation to supper recently refused and by now probably a dead letter.

"My Inkosisan wants to speak to the baas," a voice so gentle and modest that it might have been Bat’s own, spoke at his elbow. It was in fact another of the afflicted Makalika race who stood waving an apologetic hand in the direction of the lady by the waggon. As Bettington moved towards her, she rose from her box and addressed him in a charming but distressed voice.

"I can’t tell you how awfully sorry I am, but it appears that I have got your box of provisions."

"Don’t mention it," said Bettington, mechanically polite.

"Mine has evidently been put on to some other waggon by mistake, and I was actually just about to eat your things for my supper." She motioned to where on another packing-case set out with white enamel plates some slices of bully beef had been arranged with a tomato salad.

She looked young and slight in the firelight, and her hair was bronzier than ever. Bettington put on his most velvety manners.

"And I hope you still will. I’m delighted that the things have been of any use, though I’m afraid the box contains only the most ordinary kind of junk."

"Not at all—​it is full of good things. I had my lunch and breakfast out of it to-day—​it never occurred to me for a moment until I heard your boy questioning mine about your box—​then I casually glanced at the lid—​and to my horror, the name Bettington!"

"I am sorry my name should so unpleasantly inspire you," he deplored.

"Oh, of course—​I didn’t mean—​I--"

"The only possible amends I can make is to go at once and look for your box while you finish your supper."