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Tari Barl departed on his errand, and returned presently, looking very crestfallen. "What's wrong, Tarry Barrel?" asked the subaltern. "Colonel him call me one time fool, sah," he reported. "Him tell you come see him all in dashed hurry quick." "I wonder what Tarry Barrel has been doing?" thought Dudley as he hastened to report to his C.O.
It was a contest between a pair of high-powered field glasses and the eyesight of a native. Vainly Wilmshurst wiped the lenses and looked and looked again without being able to satisfy himself that Bela Moshi's statement was correct. "Here, you boy!" said the sergeant addressing Tari Barl. "You come here an' use yer eyes all one time quick. Say who am white man on der black horse."
Had Tari been a Marquesan we should have seen him no more; being what he was, the most mild, long-suffering, melancholy man, he took a revenge a hundred times more painful. Scarce had the canoe with the nine villagers put off from their farewell before the Casco was boarded from the other side. The rest of my family basely fled from the encounter.
Dudley looked enquiringly at his cabin-mate, knowing that Mutton Chop was Laxdale's servant. "Oh, so that rascal's the culprit," declared Laxdale. "Didn't I say I thought so?" "Bring Mutton Chop here," ordered Wilmshurst, addressing the broadly smiling Tari Barl. The Haussa vanished, presently to reappear with almost an exact counterpart of himself.
Tari was poor, and poorly lodged. His house was a wooden frame, run up by Europeans; it was indeed his official residence, for Tari was the shepherd of the promontory sheep.
Tari's son was smiling and inert; his daughter-in-law, a girl of sixteen, pretty, gentle, and grave, more intelligent than most Anaho women, and with a fair share of French; his grandchild, a mite of a creature at the breast. I went up the den one day when Tari was from home, and found the son making a cotton sack, and madame suckling mademoiselle.
Half a dozen times he pulled himself together, only to realise that the overpowering desire for sleep had him firmly in its grip. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the cautious challenge of one of the sentries. Tari Barl and his companion were returning. "Well?" exclaimed Wilmshurst interrogatively, as the stalwart blacks stood stiffly to attention.
Dudley Wilmshurst, Second Lieutenant of the Nth West African Regiment, threw off the light coverings, pulled aside the mosquito curtains, and sat upon the edge of his cot, hardly able to realise that Tari Barl, his Haussa servant, had announced the momentous news. Doubtful whether his senses were not playing him false Wilmshurst glanced round the room.
At the end of the island are vallies of great extent, extending quite to the sea, called Gab Serendib, of extreme beauty, and chequered with groves and plains, water and meads, and blessed with a wholesome air. A sheep may be there bought for half a dram, and for the same as much of their drink, made of palm-honey, boiled and prepared with tari, or toddi, as will suffice for many persons.
A short distance from the oil stove on which a kettle was boiling, thanks to the energy and thoughtfulness of Private Tari Barl, stood an assortment of camp equipment: canvas tent d'abri, ground sheets, aluminium mess traps, a folding canvas bath, and last but not least an indispensable Doulton pump filter.
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