The Keepers of the Kings Peace | Page 8

is--or was--up to one hundred and four, and I have
been delirious. I wouldn't like to say, dear old--sir, that I'm not nearly
delirious now."
"Come up to tiffin," invited Hamilton.
Bones saluted--a sure preliminary to a dramatic oration.
"Sir," he said firmly, "you've always been a jolly old officer to me
before this contretemps wrecked my young life--but I shall never be
quite the same man again, sir."
"Don't be an ass," begged Hamilton.

"Revile me, sir," said Bones dismally; " give me a dangerous mission,
one of those jolly old adventures where a feller takes his life in one
hand, his revolver in the other, but don't ask me--"
"My sister wants to see you," said Hamilton, cutting short the flow of
eloquence.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Bones hollowly, and strode into his hut.
"And what I'm going to do with him, Heaven knows," groaned
Hamilton at tiffin. "The fact is, Pat, your arrival on the scene has
thoroughly demoralized him."
The girl folded her serviette and walked to the window, and stood
looking out over the yellow stretch of the deserted parade--ground.
"I'm going to call on Bones," she said suddenly.
"Poor Bones!" murmured Sanders.
"That's very rude!" She took down her solar helmet from the peg
behind the door and adjusted it carefully. Then she stepped through the
open door, whistling cheerfully.
"I hope you don't mind, sir," apologized Hamilton, "but we've never
succeeded in stopping her habit of whistling."
Sanders laughed.
"It would be strange if she didn't whistle," he said cryptically.
Bones was lying on his back, his hands behind his head. A
half--emptied tin of biscuits, no less than the remnants of a box of
chocolates, indicated that anchorite as he was determined to be, his
austerity did not run in the direction of starvation.
His mind was greatly occupied by a cinematograph procession of
melancholy pictures. Perhaps he would go away, far, far, into the
interior. Even into the territory of the great king where a man's life is

worth about five cents net. And as day by day passed and no news
came of him--as how could it when his habitation was marked by a
cairn of stones?--she would grow anxious and unhappy. And presently
messengers would come bringing her a few poor trinkets he had
bequeathed to her--a wrist--watch, a broken sword, a silver
cigarette--case dented with the arrow that slew him--and she would
weep silently in the loneliness of her room.
And perhaps he would find strength to send a few scrawled words
asking for her pardon, and the tears would well up in her beautiful grey
eyes-- as they were already welling in Bones's eyes at the picture he
drew--and she would know--all.
"Phweet!"
Or else, maybe he would be stricken down with fever, and she would
want to come and nurse him, but he would refuse.
"Tell her," he would say weakly, but oh, so bravely, "tell her... I ask
only... her pardon."
"Phweet!"
Bones heard the second whistle. It came from the open window
immediately above his head. A song bird was a rare visitor to these
parts, but he was too lazy and too absorbed to look up.
Perhaps (he resumed) she would never see him again, never know the
deep sense of injustice...
"Phwee--et!"
It was clearer and more emphatic, and he half turned his head to look--
He was on his feet in a second, his hand raised to his damp forehead,
for leaning on the window sill, her lips pursed for yet another whistle,
was the lady of his thoughts.
She met his eyes sternly.

"Come outside--misery!" she said, and Bones gasped and obeyed.
"What do you mean," she demanded, "by sulking in your wretched
little hut when you ought to be crawling about on your hands and knees
begging my pardon?"
Bones said nothing.
"Bones," said this outrageous girl, shaking her head reprovingly, "you
want a jolly good slapping!"
Bones extended his bony wrist.
"Slap!" he said defiantly.
He had hardly issued the challenge when a very firm young palm,
driven by an arm toughened by long acquaintance with the royal and
ancient game, came "Smack!" and Bones winced.
"Play the game, dear old Miss Hamilton," he said, rubbing his wrist.
"Play the game yourself, dear old Bones," she mimicked him. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself--"
"Let bygones be bygones, jolly old Miss Hamilton," begged Bones
magnanimously. "And now that I see you're a sport, put it there, if it
weighs a ton."
And he held out his nobbly hand and caught the girl's in a grip that
made her grimace.
Five minutes later he was walking her round the married quarters of his
Houssas, telling her the story of his earliest love affair. She was an
excellent listener, and seldom interrupted him