"Not yet," said Donovan; "the bar's too full at first for me. Padre and
I'll come later."

The others stepped off across the crowded deck, and Donovan pitched his
magazine into Bevan's chair to retain it.

"You're from South Africa?" queried Peter.

"Yes," replied the other. "I was in German West, and came over after on
my own. Joined up with the brigade here."

"What part of Africa?" asked Peter.

"Basutoland, padre. Not a bad place in a way--decent climate, topping
scenery, but rather a stodgy crowd in the camps. One or two decent
people, but the majority mid-Victorian, without a blessed notion except
the price of mealies, who quarrel about nothing half the time, and talk
tuppenny-ha'penny scandal the rest. Good Lord! I wish we had some of the
perishers out here. But they know which side of the bread the butter is.
Bad time for trade, they say, and every other trader has bought a car
since the war. Of course, there's something to be said for the other
side, but what gets my goat is their pettiness. I'm for British East
Africa after the war. There's a chap written a novel about Basutoland
called 'The Land of To-morrow,' but I'd call it 'The Land of the Day
before Yesterday.' I suppose some of them came over with an assortment of
ideas one time, but they've struck no new ones since. I don't advise you
to settle in a South African dorp if you can help it, padre."

"Don't suppose I shall," said Peter. "I've just got engaged, and my