up by what is called a Representative Press as a second Crichton. And all
this because he was dead. Such is glory.

All unconscious of these honours, honest Jem Agar sat in his little
tent, nibbling the end of his penholder--the gift, by the way, of his
father--and wishing that he had bought a Letts's diary with six days in a
page instead of three.




CHAPTER VIII

RELIEVED

Well waited is well done.


"Here--hi!"

This time some one heard him, and that small, silent man, Ben Abdi, stood
in the doorway of the tent at attention.

"Are you keeping a good look-out down the valley?" asked Major Agar.

"Ee yess, sar."

"No signs of any one?"

"No, sar."