"Well, I suppose because I'm an adventurous idiot," was the modest reply, "and I was told that a bridle-path cut off seven miles."
"So it does,—but it depends upon which bridle-path. This one has put you on, a good ten."
"I say, what a confounded nuisance!" exclaimed the wanderer, looking down at his blown, and sweating, steed.
"Our place is barely a mile from here," announced Dawson, speaking for the first time. "Come on with us, have a drink, give the gee a feed, and a rub-down, and we will send a coolie to put you on the way to Fairplains—unless you'll stay the night?" he added, with true planter's hospitality.
"Thanks awfully, but I'd better shove on. I'll be glad to stop an hour at your diggings, and give the cob a rest—he's pretty well done."
"Not the usual 'Hirling,' I see," remarked Byng.
"No, I brought him from Cananore; he is awfully soft—that climate is only fit for horned cattle!"
"Yes, beastly wet," agreed Byng, his bright eyes taking in the well-knit figure and military bearing of the cob's master. "Your regiment quartered there?"
"It is—my name is Mayne—Derek Mayne—an uncle of mine is a pal of Fletcher's, he invited me up for six weeks' shooting—and naturally I came like a shot!"
"But Fletcher has gone home—went off ten days ago!"