We filled our glasses - two of punch and one of milk - and
drank to our next merry meeting. Then Sandy began to laugh, and
I joined in. The sense of hopeless folly again descended on me. The
best plans we could make were like a few buckets of water to ease
the drought of the Sahara or the old lady who would have stopped
the Atlantic with a broom. I thought with sympathy of little Saint
Teresa.



CHAPTER THREE
Peter Pienaar


Our various departures were unassuming, all but the American's.
Sandy spent a busy fortnight in his subterranean fashion, now in
the British Museum, now running about the country to see old
exploring companions, now at the War Office, now at the Foreign
Office, but mostly in my flat, sunk in an arm-chair and meditating.
He left finally on December 1st as a King's Messenger for Cairo.
Once there I knew the King's Messenger would disappear, and
some queer Oriental ruffian take his place. It would have been
impertinence in me to inquire into his plans. He was the real
professional, and I was only the dabbler.

Blenkiron was a different matter. Sir Walter told me to look out
for squalls, and the twinkle in his eye gave me a notion of what was
coming. The first thing the sportsman did was to write a letter to
the papers signed with his name. There had been a debate in the