each other, sickened with memories of what that cry had often meant. Sergeant Flynn, the red-headed Irishman, came running in. As he passed Moriarity he grinned—"Hell to pay"; then froze his face and saluted the Sirdar.
"What is it, Flynn?"
"That bloomin' naygur, sorr. They're makin' a bally big row over him."
In the first rush, side by side with General Durham, the American planter passed the gate. Not a servant waited on his haunches—all gone. The embankment was thronged with bat-like Arabs darting here and there. From afar off in the native quarters came the patter of bare feet, the flutter of rags, and the muttering of voices. Donkey boys left their beasts, date-sellers forsook their baskets; the sakia had stopped. Everybody crowded along the river bank. Zack was not in sight.
In sturdy bounds Colonel Spottiswoode leaped across the road and forced an opening through the crowd, following the direction of every eye. Arabs ran along the edge, of the water, and shouted, as a boy came swimming ashore with Old Reliable's helmet. The Colonel saw five heads bobbing up and down in the thick red water. One of those heads was Zack's. Four brawny brown men struggled around him, battling with the current. A Gippy soldier threw them a rope
