“Damned fine type!” said the boy, whose tunic, for all his youth, sported wings.  “Fritz can’t touch it yet.  Of course, he’ll copy it soon enough, or go one better, but just at present I think it’s the best out.  Wish we’d got some in our circus.  We’ve nothing but ...” and he trailed off into technicalities.

Peter found himself studying Donovan, who lay back beyond Jenks turning the pages of an illustrated magazine and smoking.  The eyes interested him; they looked extraordinarily clear, but as if their owner kept hidden behind them a vast number of secrets as old as the universe.  The face was lined—­good-looking, he thought, but the face of a man who was no novice in the school of life.  Peter felt he liked the Captain instinctively.  He carried breeding stamped on him, far more than, say, the Major with the eyeglass.  Peter wondered if they would meet again.

The siren sounded, and a bustle began as people put on their life-belts.  “All life-belts on, please,” said a young officer continually, who, with a brassard on his arm, was going up and down among the chairs.  “Who’s that?” asked Peter, struggling with his belt.

“Some poor bloke who has been roped in for crossin’ duty,” said Jenks.  “Mind my chair, padre; Bevan and I are going below for a wet.  Coming, skipper?”

“Not yet,” said Donovan; “the bar’s too full at first for me.  Padre and I’ll come later.”

The others stepped off across the crowded deck, and Donovan pitched his magazine into Bevan’s chair to retain it.

“You’re from South Africa?” queried Peter.

“Yes,” replied the other.  “I was in German West, and came over after on my own.  Joined up with the brigade here.”

“What part of Africa?” asked Peter.

“Basutoland, padre.  Not a bad place in a way—­decent climate, topping scenery, but rather a stodgy crowd in the camps.  One or two decent people, but the majority mid-Victorian, without a blessed notion except the price of mealies, who quarrel about nothing half the time, and talk tuppenny-ha’penny scandal the rest.  Good Lord!  I wish we had some of the perishers out here.  But they know which side of the bread the butter is.  Bad time for trade, they say, and every other trader has bought a car since the war.  Of course, there’s something to be said for the other side, but what gets my goat is their pettiness.  I’m for British East Africa after the war.  There’s a chap written a novel about Basutoland called ‘The Land of To-morrow,’ but I’d call it ’The Land of the Day before Yesterday.’  I suppose some of them came over with an assortment of ideas one time, but they’ve struck no new ones since.  I don’t advise you to settle in a South African dorp if you can help it, padre.”

“Don’t suppose I shall,” said Peter.  “I’ve just got engaged, and my girl’s people wouldn’t let her out of England.”

“Engaged, are you?  Thank your stars you aren’t married.  It’s safer not to be out here.”