subaltern worshipped him openly and with reason. For Monck it was who,
grimly resolute, had pulled him through the worst illness he had ever
known, accomplishing by sheer force of will what Ralston, the doctor,
had failed to accomplish by any other means. And in consequence and for
all time the youngest subaltern in the mess had become Monck's devoted
adherent.

They stood together for a moment at the top of the steps while Monck,
his dark, lean face wholly unresponsive and inscrutable, took out a
cigar. The night was a wonderland of deep spaces and glittering stars.
Somewhere far away a native _tom-tom_ throbbed like the beating of a
fevered pulse, quickening spasmodically at intervals and then dying away
again into mere monotony. The air was scentless, still, and heavy.

"It's going to be deuced warm," said Tommy.

"Have a smoke?" said Monck, proffering his case.

The boy smiled with swift gratification. "Oh, thanks awfully! But it's a
shame to hurry over a good cigar, and I promised Stella to go straight
back."

"A promise is a promise," said Monck. "Have it later!" He added rather
curtly, "I'm going your way myself."

"Good!" said Tommy heartily. "But aren't you going to show at the Club
House? Aren't you going to dance?"

Monck tossed down his lighted match and set his heel on it. "I'm keeping
my dancing for to-morrow," he said. "The best man always has more than