each platform Tommy Atkins stood in long straight lines, talking
or munching great sandwiches or smoking.

The heat smelt and felt of another world. The din was from the
same sphere. Yet everywhere was hope and geniality and by-your-
leave as if weddings were in the wind and not the overture to death.

Threading his way in and out among the motley swarm with a great
black cheroot between his teeth and sweat running into his eyes
from his helmet-band, Athelstan King strode at ease--at home--intent--
amused--awake--and almost awfully happy. He was not in the least
less happy because perfectly aware that a native was following him
at a distance, although he did wonder how the native had contrived
to pass within the lines.

The general at Peshawur had compressed about a ton of miscellaneous
information into fifteen hurried minutes, but mostly he had given
him leave and orders to inform himself; so the fun was under way
of winning exact knowledge in spite of officers, not one of whom
would not have grown instantly suspicions at the first asked question.
At the end of fifteen minutes there was not a glib staff-officer
there who could have deceived him as to the numbers and destination
of the force entraining.

"Kerachi!" he told himself, chewing the butt of his cigar and keeping
well ahead of the shadowing native. Always keep a "shadow" moving
until you're ready to deal with him is one of Cocker's very
soundest rules.

"Turkey hasn't taken a hand yet--the general said so. No holy war