"Lucky dogs!"
"Yes," put in Dawson, "hunting, drawing sholahs for sambur, and pig, and at home, there are rats and bandicoots. Two dog-boys feed and brush them—and a few live indoors."
"A few!" echoed Byng, "make it a dozen! The poodle and fox-terriers,—like the poor,—are always with us, and I've found a couple of beagles in my bed before now, and"—as an old retriever came slowly towards the party, "here comes a pensioner to welcome us. This is Chicknabullnay."
For the last quarter of a mile, the journey had been on a well-metalled cart road, and through a crop of dense green coffee bushes; now, a sudden curve brought the back of a long, low bungalow with adjoining gardens, stores, and stables, into sight. As the trio rode down a steep slope, dog-boys, and syces, hurried forward to claim their respective charges.
The guest dismounted rather stiffly, and was escorted by Dawson straight through the house, and into the front verandah. Here the view that lay before them was startlingly unexpected; low hills to right and left had, as it were, been cleft by some volcanic convulsion, and disclosed a far-away, and exquisite, blue panorama of the plains.
"Oh I say!" Mayne exclaimed involuntarily.
"Hits you bang in the eye, doesn't it?" was Dawson's complacent rejoinder. "Most planters manœuvre for a fine outlook—the one up at Fairplains is the same—but Fletcher swears, ten times better. Now come along inside, and have a wash."