Teddy, for all his unconventional, "jungly" ways, was a good sort; a strong man, who kept the reins in his ugly big fists, and was master. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays—oh, it was not all "coffee"—and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras, and fashionable—alas! rather remote—hill stations; he got a bit of shooting, was making money, and, on the whole, the billet suited him down to the ground.
The couple had been to the foot of the ghât on business connected with the transport of their crops; every yard they now travelled carried them further and further from dense, tropical forests, sweltering heat, and swampy valleys, and nearer to the quiet beauty of the grassy uplands.
Turning a sharp corner, they debouched into a little glade where three tracks met, and here, with a slight shock of surprise, discovered that prominent figure in early Victorian fiction, known as "a solitary horseman."
Dawson, who was still expounding on the scandalous price of bone manure, broke off his sentence with:
"I say,—who's this?"
"Hello, good afternoon," said the stranger, raising a smart topee, "I heard your voices, and waited. I don't know these parts, and I'm afraid I've lost my bearings."
The "lost one" was a well set-up, self-possessed individual, mounted on a fine waler cob, and accompanied by a wiry, and more than half-naked syce.
"I expect we will soon put you all right," said Byng,—ever the speaking partner—"Where are you bound for?"
"A place called Fairplains; the estate of one James Fletcher."
"Then you are just five miles out; you overshot the mark by that native village among the plantain trees, near the bridge. Why didn't you stick to the road?"