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."