CHAPTER III

FAREWELL

NEXT morning Colin Sinclair bade farewell to Stockmere School. It cannot be said that he did so reluctantly. His mind was so full of the tremendous adventure which confronted him that he hardly realised he was passing another landmark in his career.

He had parted with his school-fellows amid unanimous good wishes and envious regrets. Mr. Collier, his housemaster, gave him some sound advice, which, seemingly falling upon deaf ears, served a useful purpose before many months had passed. He also handed the lad a small box wrapped up in brown paper--a gift that Colin afterwards found to be a tabloid medicine chest.

The Head was moved to the verge of tears during his farewell interview, at which Colin wondered. There seemed a vast difference between the austere pedagogue and the frail, sympathetic man--yet they were one and the same.

"And, Colin," he concluded, "I want you to accept and use this little gift. You will find it more of a protection than a rifle."

Sinclair took the proffered parcel with undisguised curiosity. By the feel of it it was like a large revolver, which, he thought, was a strange choice on the part of the learned Dr. Narfield. But when the wrappings were removed a plated article that looked like a motor-pump and carburetter was displayed.

"It's a filter," explained the Head. "Impure water is, as you know, one of the greatest sources of disease in tropical countries. So always filter your drinking water, Colin, and if it is possible, boil it as well. One cannot be too careful in that respect. I remember as a young man--_eheu, fugaces_--when I was engaged in a scientific expedition in South America how a lack of pure water hampered our work and endangered the health of the whole party. Well, good-bye, Colin, and God-speed."

Ten minutes later Colin was bowling along towards Colbury Monkton in a taxi. Then, and only then, did the thought strike him that he was leaving Stockmere for good. He might see the school again--he hoped he would as an Old Boy--but there was a chance that he might not.

For the next six weeks--days that moved with leaden feet--Colin's parents, brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts, busied themselves with the preparations for the lad's departure. In spite of Dr. Narfield's generosity in secretly providing the passage money, the already seriously strained financial resources of the family were severely taxed.

An outfit--a heavy expense even in pre-war days--had to be procured. This, cut down as efficiency would permit, made quite a hole in fifty pounds. Nothing superfluous was ordered since Mr. Sinclair "knew the ropes" and strenuously resisted the blandishments of the outfitter to purchase "necessaries" which more than likely would never be required.

At length the day prior to the sailing of the S.S. _Huldebras_ arrived. Colin, accompanied by his father, went up to London, where at an hotel Tiny Desmond joined them.

Tiny had brought all the family with him--apparently because he had no option in the matter. His outfit, too, was mountainous. Each of his three trunks was larger than Colin's modest two metal-bound boxes. His worldly goods were greatly superior to his chum's, but Colin had something that Desmond, with all the wealth of his family to back him, did not possess--good health.

"Simply had to bring all this stuff along, Colin," he explained apologetically. "We'll share and share alike on this stunt. I've a couple of fine .303 sporting rifles given me. Wish I could have shown you, but they're packed. One's yours. Wonder who'll bag the first lion? There are hundreds of them around Kilembonga, I'm told."

Desmond was excited, but even a casual observer could see that the lad was far from well. His treatment under Dr. Anderson--he did not leave Stockmere for a month after Colin's departure--had merely arrested the progress of the malady. As the doctor had said, nothing less than a prolonged stay in a warm, dry climate would effect a cure.

At nine o'clock on the following morning the two chums went on board. It was a bewildering sort of morning. They were shown their respective berths by the busy steward, and, of course, Colin's father and Tiny's swarm of relatives had to see their cabins. Since there were hundreds of passengers and their friends all doing the same sort of thing, there was little privacy and no opportunity for a quiet farewell.

An hour later a bell rang and an order was given for all visitors to leave the ship.

"Good-bye, my boy, and the best of luck," exclaimed Mr. Sinclair, gripping his son's hand. The last farewells were exchanged, the gangways clattered on the quay-side, and, bullied and cajoled by a pair of fussy tugs, the _Huldebras_ glided into the broad estuary of the Thames.

Fainter and fainter dwindled the shouts from the wharf, until the dense crowd of people vanished in the light mist that overhung the river.

Then, under the impulse of her powerful engines, the good ship gathered way and was fairly on her voyage.

"It seems too good to be true," exclaimed Tiny. "I hope I shan't wake up and find it's all a dream."