“Then I think I will change it,” he answered, striving to quell the eagerness in his tone. “Besides, it’ll be such a joke on good old Greenoak when he gets back, to find I’ve flown.”
“Where is Mr Greenoak now?” asked Hazel. “Isn’t he here?”
“No. He’s away on some secret service.”
“Something to help other people, I suppose,” rejoined the girl. “He lives for that.”
There was just a little dimming of Dick Selmes’ golden vista. Was Hazel going to recommence booming Greenoak? She had never seemed to tire of that at Haakdoornfontein. Then he felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.
“I should think he did live for that,” declared Dick, heartily. “He saved my life twice since we crossed the Kei. Do you know, I was twice captured by the Kafirs, and the rum part of it was, it came off before the actual war began; but they’d have done for me all the same, as sure as I sit here—and that in a precious unpleasant manner—if it hadn’t been for Greenoak. But it’s something of a yarn, and must keep till there’s time to tell it. Shall I go and see after your inspanning, Mrs Waybridge?”
“No. Go and see after your own kit, that’ll save time. Only, don’t make it bigger than you can help, because the cart isn’t a Cobb and Co. coach.”
“Will a flannel shirt and a cartridge shell be overweight?” said Dick, slily.