Peters, nothing loth, went out. He found Lamont just coming out of the house, having seen the wounded men made as snug and comfortable as they could be under the circumstances. Indeed, he had been giving the doctor actual aid with his own hands, in one case where an amputation had been necessary. "Certainly I'll come, Peters," he said. "I want to thank these fellows for coming with me when I asked them. Heavens! to think what would have happened if they'd hung back, for you and I would have been nowhere against such odds. But--it won't bear thinking about." A huge cheer greeted his entrance. All hands were awaiting him, glasses ready. A gigantic tumbler of whisky-and-soda was thrust into his hand by Jim Steele. "Toss that down first, captain," said that worthy. "You've had nothing yet." Lamont, entering into the fun of the thing, complied. Then Jim Steele went on-- "Boys, I'm going to give you the health of our captain, the biggest tiger in a fight any fellow could wish to find himself alongside of--" The vociferous chorus of `Hear--hear!' having subsided, he went on-- "But before doing that, I want to apologise to him--yes, to apologise, and I don't know how to do it quite low enough. The day of the race meeting I insulted you, captain. I called you a coward. A coward I think of that, boys, after what we've seen to-day. Well, now I want to say you may kick me--now, in front of everyone here, and I won't move. So, go ahead." "Oh, stow that, Jim Steele," interrupted Lamont, "and don't make a silly ass of yourself. You were a little bit screwed, you know, and didn't know what the devil you were saying." Here the listeners roared. "Don't you imagine I've given that another thought, because I haven't. And calling a man anything doesn't make him so. We'll rub out that little disagreement right here." He put out his hand, and the next moment almost wished he hadn't, when Jim Steele was doing his best to wring it off. The cheering was wildly renewed. "Boys," went on the latter, raising his glass. "Here's Captain Lamont, and his jolly good health. And if he'll raise a corps to take the veldt and help straighten out this racket, I'm going to be the first man to join. I don't suppose there's a man jack in this room that won't join. Is there?" "No--no." The answer was an enthusiastic roar. And as they drank his health they struck up the usual chorus under the circumstances--`For he's a jolly good fellow'--until the room rang again. And if the watchful savage was crawling about the dark veldt outside, in a scouting capacity--and who shall say he was not--he must have decided that Makiwa was singing war-songs with extraordinary go and zest--not to say indulging in a _Tyay'igama_ dance [see note], by way of celebrating his victory.