"More of a passenger, than a lady," corrected Dawson, "but a rare good sort."
"And the girls ditto," continued his cousin. "These are our nearest—if not dearest. You'll soon get to know everyone, and everyone will know you,—and give you lots of sport."
"Well then, I think I'll make a start, if you'll send for the cob, and syce; it's seven o'clock."
"It's a fine starlight night, and no hurry; only the Travers' are early birds," said Dawson, when Mayne's cob was led up. "There's a coolie to guide you. I expect we shall see you pretty often—mind you look in, when you can."
"Upon my word, I don't know how to thank you! You have been most awfully good in taking me in like this," said Mayne. "Perhaps Fletcher has not written; and you may have me back on your hands to-morrow morning," and with a laugh, and a salute, he sprang into the saddle, and cantered away, closely pursued by syce, and coolie.
"A real cheery chap!" remarked Dawson, as he looked after the parting guest; "no 'haw-haw' nonsense about him. I like his eyes,—and he laughs like a boy."
"Boy! He must be seven or eight and twenty," said Byng, "may be more. Money, I should say. I noticed his watch, and he paid a smart sum for that cob. He's not a bad-looking chap—I hope he won't turn the child's head?"
"Not likely!" rejoined Dawson, "Nancy's head is too well screwed on, and she has no room for anyone in her thoughts, but her Daddy—as for that fellow, his one and only object in life, is to bag a tiger!"
Having pronounced this dictum, Dawson flung himself into a long cane chair, and picked up The Planter's Gazette.