This was carefully done, and the men reached the foot of the granite pile, formed up, and marched back to the market-place, where they were dismissed to their meagre breakfast, while the captain sought the colonel's quarters without a word to his subordinates. "The doctor says fasting's very good for a man; but one man's meat, or want of it, is another man's poison, Drew, my boy, and starvation does not agree with Roby." "No," replied Lennox. "I've noticed that he has been a bit queer for a week past." "Say a fortnight, and I'll agree with you. Why, he has been like a bear with a sore head. Never said a civil word to any one, and I've heard him bully the poor boys shamefully." "Yes; it is a pity, too, for they've behaved splendidly." "Right you are. I always liked them, but I'm quite proud of the poor fellows now. I say though, hang it all! talking must be bad on an empty stomach. Lead on, my lord; the banquet waits." "Banquet!" said Lennox, with a sigh. "Yes. Oh, how tired I am of that mealie pap! It puts me in mind of Brahma fowls, and that maddens me." "Why?" "Because I used to keep some of the great, feather-breeched, lumbering things to send to poultry shows. Some one told me that Indian corn was a fine thing for them--made their plumage bright and gave them bone; so I ordered a lot." "And did it answer the purpose?" "Answer the purpose?" cried Dickenson indignantly. "Why, the beggars picked it up grain by grain and put it down again. Pampered Sybarites! Then the cock cocked his eye up at me and said, `_Tuck, tuck, tuck! Caro, waro, ware_!' which being interpreted from the Chick-chuck language which is alone spoken by the gallinaceous tribe, means, `None of your larks: yellow pebbles for food? Not to-day, thankye!'" "I say, Bob, what a boy you do keep!" said Lennox. "The sweet youthfulness of my nature, lad. But, as I was telling you, the beggars wouldn't touch it, and I had to get our cook to boil it soft. Our mealie pap has just the same smell. That makes me think of being a real boy with my poultry pen: the Brahmas make me think of the young cockerels who did not feather well for show and were condemned to go to pot--that is to say, to the kitchen; and _that_ brings up their legs and wings peppered and salted before broiling for breakfast, finished off with a sprinkle of Worcester sauce, and then--oh, luscious! oh, tender juiciness! Oh! hold me up, old man, or I shall faint. There, sniff! Can't you smell? Yes, of course; mealie pap in a tin, and--Oh, here's the colonel eating his. Roby will have to give his report now." "Good--morning, gentlemen," said the colonel. "Just in time for breakfast. Well, what have you found?" He had hardly asked the question before Captain Roby hurried in, to go up to his side at once and make his report.