“We can’t do better than stay where we are until they are all past,” said the Colonel, for it was evident now that the men from above would have to come round. In a broken single file they went past, black men and brown, Soudanese and fellaheen, but all of the best, for the Camel Corps is the corps d’élite of the Egyptian army. Each had a brown bandolier over his chest and his rifle held across his thigh. A large man with a drooping black moustache and a pair of binoculars in his hand was riding at the side of them.
“Hulloa, Archer!” croaked the Colonel.
The officer looked at him with the vacant, unresponsive eye of a complete stranger.
“I’m Cochrane, you know! We travelled up together.”
“Excuse me, sir, but you have the advantage of me,” said the officer. “I knew a Colonel Cochrane Cochrane, but you are not the man. He was three inches taller than you, with black hair and—”
“That’s all right,” cried the Colonel testily. “You try a few days with the Dervishes, and see if your friends will recognise you!”
