The Keepers of the Kings Peace | Page 2

me happiness. Also it is common talk that at this time
there come messengers carrying bags of silver and salt to pay men
according to their services."
Undismayed she tried her last shot.
"You have a crooked finger which none can straighten--behold!"

She took his hand in hers and pressed the injured phlange. A sharp pain
shot up his arm and he winced, pulling back his hand--but the year--old
dislocation which had defied the effort of the coast doctor was
straightened out, and though the movement was exquisitely painful he
could bend it.
"I see you are a true witch," he said, greatly impressed, for a native has
a horror of deformity of any kind, and he sent back word of the
phenomenon to Sanders.
Sanders at the same time was in receipt of other news which alternately
pleased him and filled him with panic. The mail had come in by fast
launch and had brought Captain Hamilton of the Houssas a very bulky
letter written in a feminine hand. He had broken the glad news to
Commissioner Sanders, but that gentleman was not certain in his mind
whether the startling intelligence conveyed by the letter was good or
bad.
"I'm sure the country will suit her," he said, "this part of the country at
any rate--but what will Bones say?"
"Bones!" repeated Captain Hamilton scornfully. "What the dickens
does it matter what Bones says?"
Nevertheless, he went to the sea--end of the verandah, and his roar
rivalled the thunder of the surf.
"Bones!"
There was no answer and for an excellent reason.
Sanders came out of the bungalow, his helmet on the back of his head,
a cheroot tilted dizzily.
"Where is he?" he asked.
Hamilton turned.
"I asked him to--at least I didn't ask him, he volunteered--to peg out a

trench line."
"Expect an invasion?" asked Saunders.
Hamilton grinned.
"Bones does," he said. " He's full of the idea, and offered to give me
tips on the way a trench should be dug--he's feeling rotten about
things... you know what I mean. His regiment was at Mons."
Sanders nodded.
"I understand," he said quietly. "And you... you're a jolly good soldier,
Hamilton--how do you feel about it all?"
Hamilton shrugged his shoulders.
"They would have taken me for the Cameroons, but somebody had to
stay," he said quietly. "After all, it is one's business to... to do one's job
in the station of life to which it has pleased God to call him. This is my
work... here."
Sander's laid his hand on the other's shoulder.
"That's the game as it should be played," he said, and his blue eyes
were as soft and tender as a woman's. "There is no war here--we are the
keepers of the King's peace, Hamilton."
"It's rotten...."
"I know--I feel that way myself. We're out of it--the glory of it--the
chance of it--the tragedy of it. And there are others. Think of the men in
India eating their hearts out... praying for the order that will carry them
from the comfort of their lives to the misery and death--and the
splendour, I grant you--of war."
He sighed and looked wistfully to the blue sea.
Hamilton beckoned a Houssa corporal who was crossing the garden of

the Residency.
"Ho, Mustaf," he said, in his queer coast Arabic, "where shall I look for
my lord Tibbetti?"
The corporal turned and pointed to the woods which begin at the back
of the Residency and carry without a break for three hundred miles.
"Lord, he went there carrying many strange things--also there went
with him Ali Abid, his servant."
Hamilton reached through an open window of the bungalow and fished
out his helmet with his walking--stick.
"We'll find Bones," he said grimly; "he's been gone three hours and he's
had time to re--plan Verdun."
It took some time to discover the working party, but when it was found
the trouble was well repaid.
Bones was stretched on a canvas chair under the shade of a big Isisi
palm. His helmet was tipped forward so that the brim rested on the
bridge of his nose, his thin red arms were folded on his breast, and their
gentle rise and fall testified to his shame. Two pegs had been driven in,
and between them a string sagged half--heartedly.
Curled up under a near--by bush was, presumably, Ali
Abid--presumably, because all that was visible was a very broad stretch
of brown satin skin which showed between the waistline of a pair of
white cotton trousers and a duck jacket.
They looked down at the unconscious Bones for a long time in silence.
"What will he say when I kick him?" asked Hamilton. "You can have
the first guess."
Sanders frowned thoughtfully.
"He'll say that he was thinking out a new system of