On a warm, sultry evening in the latter part of May the Arabs and Somalis who hovered about the outskirts of Zaila, keeping well out of reach of the newly-erected fortifications which bristled with guns and British soldiery, heard the sweet strains of “Rule Britannia” and “God Save the Queen” floating over the desert.

It was the regimental band of the Ninth Lancers playing in the square of the town on the occasion of the installation of the new governor of Zaila ­Colonel Conyers Gordon.

It was Colonel Gordon who had conducted the assault on the town some weeks previous, and in recognition of his valor ­for the enemy had made a desperate stand ­he was now the newly commissioned governor.

The official documents had arrived that day, and the town was en fête, if we may use the expression; for, in addition to the native population and the soldiery, a number of visitors had come across from Aden to do honor to the brave commandant.

As the band ceased playing, Colonel Gordon appeared on the steps of the residency and briefly addressed the expectant people in a few well-chosen words.

“The tragedy of a few months ago,” he concluded, “is still fresh in our minds. I had the honor to know Sir Arthur Ashby, an honor which many of you likewise enjoyed, and the sad fate of that brave man and his companions comes vividly to our minds tonight. I trust that I shall be enabled to discharge the duties of my office with the same unswerving fidelity.”

Colonel Gordon sat down, and the band played “Rule Britannia.”

At that moment the Rhine Castle was dropping anchor in the harbor.

As the band ceased Colonel Gordon rose again, and the people instantly became quiet. By his side was a short, thickset man with dark, sallow features.

“I beg to call your attention,” began the colonel, “to one who has played an important part in our recent struggle ­Mr. Manuel Torres, a Portuguese, of whom I can say nothing better than that he deserves to be an Englishman. At the risk of his own life he tried to save Sir Arthur Ashby, and after suffering much at the hands of the enemy, he finally escaped in time to do us valuable service in retaking the town. As a recognition of his aid, I propose to appoint him Assistant Political Resident.”

Mr. Torres bowed profoundly, and as the people evinced a decided desire to hear from him, he cleared his throat and began to speak in sleek, oily tones.

He related, with many gestures, a thrilling tale of his captivity among the Arabs, the desperate attempts he had made to save Sir Arthur and the Englishmen from slavery, and how finally he had effected his own marvelous escape.

At this point a sudden commotion on the outskirts of the crowd temporarily interrupted the speaker.

“It grieves me deeply,” he went on, “to reflect on the sad destiny of my dear friend, Sir Arthur Ashby, and of those brave men, for whom I had the highest honor and regard. I risked my life to save them. I interceded with the Arab leader, Makar Makalo, but in vain. He was obdurate. To bring them back from slavery I would willingly lay down my life this minute. I would gladly ­”

What else Mr. Manuel Torres was willing to do no one ever knew or will know. He ceased speaking abruptly, and his sallow face assumed a ghastly look.

Through the opening ranks of the people advanced a group of pale and haggard men, led by a ghastly figure with sandy side whiskers in a faded uniform that hung about his shrunken limbs.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed this odd-looking stranger. “It’s that rascally Portuguese, Manuel Torres!”

A great silence fell on the people. For one second the Portuguese trembled like a leaf, then he turned and bolted through the residency door, shoving Colonel Gordon roughly aside in his mad haste.

“Stop him! Stop him!” roared the stranger. “A thousand pounds to the man who takes him alive. He’s the ringleader of the insurrection!”

Colonel Gordon hurried down the steps in bewildered amazement.

“What does this mean?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” shouted he of the sandy whiskers. “Why, blast your impudence, I’m Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor of Zaila. Who the deuce are you?”

The scene that followed baffles all description. The air rang with frenzied shouts and cheers, soldiers, natives, and visitors surged madly round the little band, and the musicians, quick to grasp the situation, struck up the inspiring strains of “Lo, the Conquering Hero Comes!”

Sir Arthur shook himself loose from the embrace of his enthusiastic friends.

“The Portuguese!” he roared. “The rascal will escape. Pursue him! Capture him!”

Now the people comprehended for the first time. A furious rush was made for the residency, the door was jammed in an instant with a struggling crowd of troops and civilians, and then they swept on through the broad hallway in pursuit of the wretched fugitive.

In five minutes the town was in an indescribable uproar. The vessels in the harbor fired showers of rockets, and the alarm guns boomed hoarsely from the fortifications.

Manuel Torres, however, overthrown at the very moment of his greatest triumph, made good his escape. He bolted through the back door of the residency, evaded the sentries at the town wall, and fled to the desert.

That same night, after a sumptuous repast, Guy Chutney, at Sir Arthur’s request, modestly related the story of their adventures to the most interested audience that ever graced the walls of the residency. A breathless silence greeted the speaker as he showed the damnable proofs of Manuel Torres’ guilt and treachery, and described with thrilling effect the awful journey through the bowels of the earth. When he concluded the tale that made him a hero in spite of himself, a burst of applause fairly made the residency tremble.

Then Sir Arthur rose to his feet.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a voice which quivered with emotion, “I deem this to be a fitting time to express my ­to express our ­admiration of my young countryman. All my comrades. I am glad to say, displayed a heroism, during our days of trial and suffering, which has never been surpassed by any men in any clime. But, if one man is worthy of special mention for cool bravery, for dogged perseverance, for unflinching, unwavering fortitude and unselfishness, that man is Guy Chutney. Gentlemen,” he continued, raising his glass, “I ask you to drink with me to the health of the bravest man I ever met ­Guy Chutney.”

Again a frantic outburst of applause shook the building, and the toast was drunk with indescribable enthusiasm. But Guy strove to make himself heard above the uproar.

“It is unfair,” he said earnestly, when quiet had been partially restored, “of Sir Arthur to credit me with what I am aware is far more than my just due. Truthfully, it should be said that no one of us surpassed his fellows in displaying the qualities Sir Arthur has just enumerated. Such an experience is enough for a lifetime, but if I am ever again called upon to face such perils as we encountered while under Africa, may God grant that I have for comrades such true-hearted, loyal friends as these.”

Carrington, Forbes, and Canaris each spoke briefly in turn; and Bildad, under the undue excitement of some wine he had managed to secure, attempted to perform a Galla war-dance on the table, and was promptly relegated to the guard-house to sober up.

At midnight a steamer left Zaila for Aden with the glad news, and twenty-four hours later the streets of London were blocked with crowds of people reading the amazing telegram that the newspapers had posted on their bulletin boards.

Colonel Conyers Gordon, of course, was not governor of Zaila at all, and though it must have been a sore disappointment to the brave old soldier, he readily and gladly installed Sir Arthur in the residency and assumed his former command of the troops.

Sir Arthur, However, had very different views. “Do you mean to say, Gordon,” he demanded, “that the government actually gave me up for lost, and had no intention of sending an expedition after me at all?”

Colonel Gordon hesitatingly admitted that such was the case.

“Then,” cried Sir Arthur, “I wash my hands of such a government. I will go home to England, and may the infernal Arabs hang, draw, and quarter me if I ever set foot on African soil again.”

“I trust, Sir Arthur,” argued Colonel Gordon, “you will not act hastily in this matter. You will admit that the government was somewhat justified in believing your case a hopeless one. The fate of you and your brave companions was thought by everybody to have been nothing short of death. I am sure, had the authorities had the slightest idea that you were living, an expedition would have been sent out. No stone would have been left unturned to rescue you.”

“Well,” said Sir Arthur, somewhat mollified, “I cannot deny that things pointed to our demise. We expected to see you again as little as you expected to see us, probably.”

“I am glad,” said Colonel Gordon, “that you have decided to take a more reasonable view of the matter. Will you not reconsider your determination of resigning your post? Let no consideration for me stop you, I beg of you. I should, of course, be glad to accept the position, but yours is undoubtedly the prior right, and your previous experience has amply proven your ability.”

“Colonel,” Sir Arthur replied solemnly, “I’m going back to England. I’m sick of Africa. I’ve had a little more than a genteel sufficiency during the past few months, and I’m pining for a sight of dear old England. I’m going home.”

Sir Arthur kept his word. On the same day he mailed his resignation, and handed the reins of office to Colonel Gordon.

After careful consideration, Colonel Carrington decided to accept the post of Assistant Political Resident that Gordon offered him, subject, of course, to the wishes of the Foreign Office.

Chutney had at first intended going on to India, but letters from home informing him of the serious illness of his brother decided his return to England, and he sailed from Aden a week later, in company with Sir Arthur and Melton Forbes, who had been recalled by his paper as soon as they learned of his wonderful journey.

Canaris accompanied them as far as Port Said, where he changed to a vessel bound for Rhodes. He was eager to see Greece after his long captivity among the Somalis, and at last accounts he was the proprietor of a celebrated cafe at Athens, having inherited a tidy sum of money from a deceased relative.

Bildad expressed a desire to go back to the Galla country, and Colonel Gordon finally succeeded in obtaining safe passage for him with a caravan bound for the interior.

Manuel Torres met the fate his treachery duly merited. Two days after his escape from Zaila he fell into the hands of a party of prowling Arabs, and was conveyed by them to Makar Makolo, who determined that he should receive fitting punishment for his renegade conduct. Accordingly he sent him under strong escort to Harar, and Rao Khan very obligingly carried out his friend Makar’s wishes by cooking the wretched Portuguese in a caldron of boiling oil.

A remarkable thing occurred in the fourth month of Governor Gordon’s rulership at Zaila.

A bronzed Englishman arrived one day with a caravan from the interior.

He was speedily recognized as Captain Waller, and he told a strange story of his adventures.

Mombagolo, the burman, who, in company with the captain and the Hindoos, had been taken into slavery by a tribe of Gallas who dwelt far to the west, had been chosen chief of this tribe on the death of its king, probably on account of his stature and strength.

His first royal act was to effect the deliverance of Captain Waller by sending him to the coast. The Hindoos had chosen to remain where they were. Captain Waller eventually returned to England, and Forbes was deeply grieved to learn that he would never see Momba again, though it was some consolation to know that, instead of a slave, he was an African monarch.

Guy reached England barely in time to see his brother before he died. As Sir Lucius Chutney was unmarried, Guy succeeded to the titles and estates.

As a landed proprietor, his duties very plainly lay at home, so he resigned his commission and settled down on the Hampshire estate.

He spends much of his time in London. He and Sir Arthur Ashby are members of the same club, and the two baronets invariably dine together.

“Chutney,” Sir Arthur said one day, as he lit his cigar after dinner, “have you ever felt any desire to leave England and resume an adventurous life?”

Chutney puffed a moment in silence.

“Sometimes,” he said finally. “Sometimes I feel as though I should enjoy laying aside home comforts, and, gun in hand, enter the trackless forests once more. Somehow civilization palls on a man after years of campaigning. Don’t you find it so, Ashby?”

“That,” replied Sir Arthur, “is just what I was getting at. Generally I feel a placid contentment with things in general, but once in a while a sort of fever stirs my blood, and I long to get out and rough it somewhere. I tell you, a wild life has a certain charm about it that dies out reluctantly when the fever once gets into a man’s blood. Some day I really believe I’ll return to Africa, or some other wild land, for big game. I should enjoy it.”

Chutney grasped his hand.

“When you do, old fellow, I’m with you,” he said. But so far they have not decided on any definite arrangements. They talk it over frequently, but continue to dine at the club.

Sometimes Forbes drops in, and then from soup to the wine the conversation is sure to cling with unwavering fidelity to that topic of deepest interest ­the strange and thrilling things that befell them when they were under Africa.