Then, partly that subject-matter for conversation is, to isolated dwellers in a remote wilderness, necessarily limited, partly because he deemed it a safe topic, Inglefield led the talk round to the day’s doings—the destruction of Madúla’s cattle.
“It’s an infernally wasteful way of getting rid of them,” he said. “I dare say you’ve blazed away nearer a thousand cartridges than a hundred, eh, Ames?”
“Quite that. As you say, it is an abominable waste, and if ever the time comes when we shall sorely need every one of those cartridges for our own defence—”
“Oh, now you’re croaking again, old chap,” interrupted Inglefield; while his spouse remarked—
“Faugh! I’d as soon be a slaughter-house butcher at once. Sooner.”
“Somebody must do it, you know, Mrs Inglefield,” replied John Ames, placidly. “If the job were turned over to natives they’d waste five times the number of cartridges, and the poor beasts would suffer all the more.”
“Suppose we change this very unpleasant subject,” she remarked, looking pointedly at him, quite ignoring the fact that it had been started by her husband, and she it was who had done the most towards keeping it going.
“Policeman he want to see Inkose.”
The interruption proceeded from one of the two small boys who acted as waiters, and who had just entered.
“Tell him to wait until I’ve done dinner, Piccanin,” replied Inglefield, placidly.