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Updated: May 12, 2025
"How goes it, old man?" exclaimed Spofforth, the leader of the deputation. "You've something to show for your little dust-up." "I have," admitted Dudley. "A clean puncture through the arm. But what are you fellows doing here? You don't mean to say that the business is over?" "By something I mean the M.C.," continued Jock Spofforth, ignoring Wilmshurst's questions.
His slow, deliberate way contrasted forcibly with Wilmshurst's quick, incisive manner; his slow dialect would have irritated the subaltern beyond measure but for the fact that he guessed the Rhodesian to be of Scots descent. Dudley noticed particularly that MacGregor had referred to his brother in the past tense. It sounded ominous. "Was a chum?" he repeated with an accent on the first word.
It was only Wilmshurst's indomitable will that had pulled him through a bout of malaria in time to be passed fit for active service with the "Waffs," as the West African Field Force is commonly known from the initial letters of the official designation.
Already events had proved that Rupert Wilmshurst's statement was well-founded. In her African colonies, in Kiau-Chau, and elsewhere for years past Germany had been assiduously preparing for The Day.
It was Wilmshurst's task to cross this unknown ground, finding out the best route for troops to advance in column of route without being detected, and a suitable place for extending in open order prior to the final phases of the assault.
Down came Wilmshurst's towel roller a fraction of a second too late for Mister Rat. At the same time Laxdale moved his hands along the ledge of the drawer and received the full force of the blow across the knuckles. "Sorry!" exclaimed Wilmshurst. Laxdale, nursing the injured hand, made no audible comment.
"Good heavens! Dudley!" exclaimed the gaunt and haggard prisoner. It was Wilmshurst's turn to be dumfounded. He stepped back a pace and looked the rescued man Intently in the face. Was it possible that this human wreck was his once well-set-up and powerfully-built brother? "Rupert!" he exclaimed dubiously. "That's me," rejoined the other. "Rather, what's left of me."
A Haussa, in the act of assisting a comrade, sprang high in the air, and fell, his hands in his death-agony clutching at Wilmshurst's ankles. Without knowing what trapped him the subaltern measured his length on the ground. Probably the fall saved his life, for a corporal immediately behind him was shot through the chest.
A deafening report sounded close to Wilmshurst's ear; he felt the blast of a rifle shot on his cheek, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the Askari topple forward and bite the dust. Wilmshurst settled the third antagonist very effectively by delivering a crashing blow with his left upon the point of the Askari's chin. The man relaxed his grip and dropped.
Faced by hordes of German levies and with the line of burning huts preventing further retirement the defenders of the kraal were in a very tight corner indeed. In double quick time Wilmshurst's party hurried over the stockade at the same place where they had clambered out a short time previously.
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