The conscientious Mortimer, with his notebook 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 for
hours, by the look of her. Hullo, Merryweather, 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 to-wards
them.
"For God's 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, I must be off," said he, striking the drops from his red
moustache.
"Any news?"
"A hitch in the railway construction. I must see the general.
It's the devil not having a telegraph."
"Anything we can report?" Out came three notebooks.
"I'll tell you after I've seen the general."
"Any dervishes?"
"The usual shaves. Hud-up, Jinny! Good-bye!"
With a soft thudding upon the sand, and a clatter among the stones the
weary pony was off upon her journey once more.
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