It was not without a vague feeling of regret that Jack Meredith read this telegram.
To be at Msala in a month with forty men and a vast load of provisions meant leaving Loango almost at once.

And, strange though it may seem, he had become somewhat attached to the dreary West African town.

The singular cosmopolitan society was entirely new to him; the life, taken as a life, almost unique.

He knew that he had not outstayed his welcome.
Maurice Gordon had taken care to assure him of that in his boisterous, hearty manner, savouring more of Harrow than of Eton, every morning at breakfast.
"Confound Durnovo!" he cried, when the telegram had been read aloud.
"Confound him, with his energy and his business-like habits! That means that you will have to leave us before long; and somehow it has got to be quite natural to see you come lounging in ten minutes late for most things, with an apology for Jocelyn, but none for me.

We shall miss you, old chap." "Yes," added Jocelyn, "we shall." She was busy with the cups, and spoke rather indifferently.
"So you've got Oscard ?" continued Maurice.