"His face is a yard long, and his lips hang down
in the slack of the corners."
"Brace up, man, and get over your grouch," a third adjured him. "You
are worse than O'Brien was, the morning after he was shoved in kink.
Were you in Cape Town, last night?"
"Not a bit of it," Carew put in hastily, while he buried his knife-
blade in the nearest pot of jam. "My left ear can prove an alibi for
him. From taps till midnight, Weldon discoursed of all the grewsome
things in the human calendar."
The smallest of the group turned himself about and peered up into
Weldon's face.
"Homesick, man?" he queried.
"Sure," Weldon replied imperturbably.
"Oh. Then get over it. Just dream of the days when the bronchos
cease from bucking and the Stringies shoot no more. Meanwhile, if
you could look pleasant, as the photographers say, it would help on
things wonderfully."
But the mess orderly interrupted. He had tidings to impart, and they
burned upon his tongue.
"Have you heard about Eaton-Hill?" he asked, in the first pause that
offered itself.
Five faces turned to him with gratifying expectancy. Eaton-Hill had
come out on the Dunottar Castle. He was known to them all as the
acknowledged exquisite of the entire camp.
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