"I know, but, all the same, I’m sure of it. What did he go on leave for then, why does any fellow go on leave in this cursed country, except he’s after a girl, or looking for one? If that’s so, and he’s taken the knock, I’m sorry for him; must be damnable to be chucked by a girl. Gad, if Fanny were to play it low down on me, I’d ... I don’t know what I would do, Graves. You’ve heard me speak of Fanny, haven’t you?"
"I have, many times. Are you coming to polo?"
"Yes, wait a minute though; there’s something else I wanted to tell you, only it went out of my head, talking of Graeme. I had a letter from Johnson, at Cape Town, this morning, and he says the Mahonga show is all on again, and we shall be for it."
"Johnson’s a fool, always spreading some shave. Come on, if you _are_ coming, that is." The pair went out, and mounting their waiting ponies rode off to the polo ground.
Johnson, however, though a fool, as Graves justly observed, proved himself on this occasion a true prophet, for next day into the ante-room—at the time crowded with officers drinking afternoon tea—burst Porky, pregnant with great news. For a moment he stood surveying them, his face bright with anticipation of the unwonted delights of an attentive audience, and then, as they, as usual, paid no heed to his presence, he let loose the torrent fighting for escape within him.
"I’ve news," he said, in a would-be indifferent manner, but again no one heeded.
"I’ve news," he roared, "listen, damn you!"
"Don’t shout, Porky," said a voice, "what’s the matter?"
"Matter, why war’s the matter," and at the word "war" a hush fell, and everybody looked up. "Bloody war!" he continued, having an audience at last, "and this gallant corps is for it, whether or no. The Mahongas have risen, and are playing hell all round, so sharpen your swords and spears, my sons, and make your last will and testament."
"It’s a lie," said Graves crossly, from his corner.
"It’s no lie, it’s all right, I tell you; no damned shaves or leg-pulls this time. I had it straight from Cape Town ten minutes ago."
"It’s begun, thank God," muttered a voice, and Graeme rose and made his way out, his departure being unnoticed in the general uproar.
"And I thank God too," said young Fanshawe, overhearing the latter part of the sentence, "that it’s you, and neither Porky nor Royle who will run the show in this same bloody war."