“So?” said Simcox. “Why not bring him out to my place. We could get up a hunt or two, if he’s fond of sport.”
The very thing, decided Greenoak. The question of how and where to make a start was solved, so he answered:
“He just is. Well then, Simcox, thanks awfully, and we’ll come. When?”
“Now. To-morrow morning.”
“But we’ve got no horses.”
“I can drive you out—that is, if that young Britisher can do without top-hats and swallow-tail suits. No room in the cart for all that sort of thing.”
“He’ll have to. Why, here he comes. This is an old friend of mine, Dick,” he went on, introducing them. “He’s got a farm out on the borders of the Addo Bush, and we’re going out there with him to-morrow to do a little hunting. How’s that?”
“Ripping,” answered Dick, brightening up, for he had been a little “down” after his recent farewell. “Perfectly, absolutely ripping.”
“We’re a bit rough and tumble out at our place, you know,” said the stock farmer, who was appraising his guest-elect. “No champagne and cigars and all that sort of thing. Eh, Greenoak?”
The latter nodded.