another whistle,
was the lady of his thoughts.

She met his eyes sternly.

"Come outside--misery!" she said, and Bones gasped and obeyed.

"What do you mean," she demanded, "by sulking in your wretched little
hut when you ought to be crawling about on your hands and knees begging
my pardon?"

Bones said nothing.

"Bones," said this outrageous girl, shaking her head reprovingly, "you
want a jolly good slapping!"

Bones extended his bony wrist.

"Slap!" he said defiantly.

He had hardly issued the challenge when a very firm young palm, driven
by an arm toughened by a long acquaintance with the royal and ancient
game, came "Smack!" and Bones winced.

"Play the game, dear old Miss Hamilton," he said, rubbing his wrist.

"Play the game yourself, dear old Bones," she mimicked him. "You ought
to be ashamed of yourself----"

"Let bygones be bygones, jolly old Miss Hamilton," begged Bones
magnanimously. "And now that I see you're a sport, put it there, if it
weighs a ton."

And he held out his nobbly hand and caught the girl's in a grip that
made her grimace.

Five minutes later he was walking her round the married quarters of his
Houssas, telling her the story of his earliest love affair. She was an
excellent listener, and seldom interrupted him save to ask if there was
any insanity in his family, or whether the girl was short-sighted; in
fact, as Bones afterwards said, it might have been Hamilton himself.

"What on earth are they finding to talk about?" wondered Sanders,
watching the confidences from the depths of a big cane chair on the
verandah.

"Bones," replied Hamilton lazily, "is telling her the story of his life
and how he saved the territories from rebellion. He's also begging her
not to breathe a word of this to me for fear of hurting my feelings."

At that precise moment Bones was winding up a most immodest recital of
his accomplishments with a less immodest footnote.

"Of course, dear old Miss Hamilton," he was saying, lowering his voice,
"I shouldn't like a word of this to come to your jolly old brother's
ears. He's an awfully good sort, but naturally in competition with an
agile mind like mine, understanding the native as I do, he hasn't an
earthly----"

"Why don't you write the story of your adventures?" she asked
innocently. "It would sell like hot cakes."

Bones choked with gratification.

"Precisely my idea--oh, what a mind you've got! What a pity it doesn't
run in the family! I'll