“Jerry, if England and Ireland went to war, which would be your home-office--London _Witness_ or Dublin _Contemporary_?” Cardinegh had never answered twice the same. “Neither,” he declared lightly now, extracting a can of kippered herring from Finacune’s saddle-bags, “but a captain’s tent, during such times as I wasn’t leading the Irish to glory. Have you an opener? I need a relish to cut this whiskey.” “The old war-horse isn’t always humorous,” remarked Bingley, who was sitting apart. Bingley always sat apart, lest somebody should see his black book of notes or borrow his provisions. Trollope turned to Finacune with a whisper. “The dean is looking ill. Have you noticed?” Finacune nodded. “It would be a heller if this little affair in the hills should prove the old man’s last campaign,” Trollope drawled softly. Another figure emerged from the dusk, and Jerry Cardinegh leaped with a roar into the arms of an agile giant in a great frieze coat. For a moment it appeared as if the two were in deadly conflict. Pup-tents were unpinned, supper-kits scattered, native servants crawled off as from a duel of man-eaters, and the saintly camels lifted their heads in fresh dismay. It was a good, a relishable greeting, and the proper way for men who love each other to meet after prolonged absence. “Arise, my children, and _kow-tow_ to Routledge, your spiritual father!” Cardinegh commanded at last. All but Bingley obeyed. “Get up, you young scut,” Jerry called ominously, “or go feed with the camels.” “I haven’t the honor of knowing the gentleman,” Bingley said without rising. “Better read your history some more,” the dean observed, turning his back upon the young lion of the _Thames_. “Gentlemen,” he resumed with an oratorical pause, “behold the man whom the Gods formed for a war-correspondent--or a spy, as you like--and they tempered him in hell’s fire and holy water--the Gods. Gentlemen, this is Routledge, who knows India better than any of you know London, and he’s an American. This is Routledge, who rides alone, who stays afield in times of peace promoting wars for us--and more wars. I say, Routledge, when were you home last?” “Sit down, you ‘damaged archangel,’” Routledge said laughingly. “I sat before your fireside in Cheer Street, London, little more than a year ago.” Hearing the name of the newcomer, the “Horse-killer” was not slow to gain his feet. He came forward hastily, the sullenness gone from his face, giving place to a mixture of envy and admiration. He stared long and intently at the gaunt profile of Routledge. Finacune saw the look and interpreted it for his own pleasure in these words: “And so you are Routledge, the, just now, so-called greatest of all. Well, I am Bingley of the _Thames_. I have surpassed all the others in this campaign, and some time I shall measure wit and grit with you. Meanwhile, you are worth cultivating.” And truly enough the first words of the “Horse-killer” as he extended his hand were: