"And change the kit a bit for dinner," added Lyttleton.
After three hours in the whirling sand everybody needed a tubbing and the change of kit. Colonel Spottiswoode went straight to his room, and Zack limped upstairs behind him, as a half-crippled hound limps home from a long chase.
Naturally the British would dress for dinner—wherever two or three are gathered together in the name of Britain they always dress for dinner. With his face gritty and his eyelashes full of sand, the Colonel said, "Zack, pour some water in that basin."
Zack poured about a cupful and then stopped. "Cunnel, I ain't gwine to let you wash in dis stuff. Tain't nothin' 'cept coffee paste. Lemme fetch you some clean water right quick."
"All right. Hurry up."
"Tain't gwine to take me no time. I'll run back to dat spring, 'bout fifty yards behind de house."
The Colonel heard what Zack said—heard him distinctly, and afterwards remembered very clearly. At the moment, however, with his mind full of queer-looking people and the strange life around him, he never imagined that even a fool nigger might ramble off into the desert seeking water out of a mirage. Yet that's precisely what
