178 The Light That Failed penhow’s rooms. Behind him sat the Keneu, the Great War Eagle, and between them lay a large map embellished with black-and-white-headed pins. “I was wrong about the Balkans,” said the Nilghai. “But I’m not wrong about this business. The whole of our work in the Southern Sudan must be done over again. The public doesn’t care, of course, but the government does, and they are making their arrangements quietly. You know that as well as I do.” “I remember how the people cursed us when our troops withdrew from Omdurman. It was bound to crop up sooner or later. But I can’t go,” said Torpenhow. He pointed through the open door; it was a hot night. “Can you blame me?” The Keneu purred above his pipe like a large and very happy cat — “Don’t blame you in the least. It’s uncommonly good of you, and all the rest of it, but every man — even you, Torp — must consider his work. I know it sounds brutal, but Dick’s out of the race, — down, — gastados expended, finished, done for. He has a little money of his own. He won't starve, and you can’t pull out of your slide for his sake. Think of your own reputation.” “Dick’s was five times bigger than mine and yours put together.” “That was because he signed his name to everything he did. It’s all ended now. You must hold yourself in readiness to move out. You can command your own prices, and you do better work than any three of us.” “Don’t tell me how tempting it is. I'll stay here to look after Dick for a while. He’s as cheerful as a bear with a sore head, but I think he likes to have me near him.” The Nilghai said something uncomplimentary about soft-headed fools who throw away their careers