“This is rather annoying, Sellon,” he said. “Here old Dirk has gone spreeing around somewhere, and goodness only knows when he’ll be back. I meant to have taken him with us this time. He might have been useful.”
“Ever taken him before?”
“No. I didn’t want too many people in the secret. This time it wouldn’t matter, because we shall find the place.”
“You seem strangely confident, Fanning,” said Sellon, thinking of the missing document.
“I am. I’ve a sort of superstition I shall hit upon it this time. However, come in, and we’ll make ourselves as comfortable as we can, with the trapful of luxuries from more civilised parts. It’ll be canned goods to-night, I’m afraid. It’s too late to order the execution of a goat.”
Having seen Marthinus, above alluded to, and who was a smartish Hottentot lad, outspan the buggy and stow away the harness, Renshaw strolled round to the kraals. Alas! the remnant of his flocks—now a mere handful—huddled away in a corner, spoke volumes as to the recent devastation. But the animals, though few, were quite in condition again.
The gloaming fell, and still he lingered on there alone. Sellon, who never favoured unnecessary exertion, had established himself indoors with a cigar and some brandy-and-water. The darkling plain in its solemn silence was favourable to meditation, and the return to his solitary home aroused in Renshaw a keen sense of despondency. What if this new expedition should prove a failure? If so, it should be the last. Come what might, nothing in the world should induce him further to inhabit this woefully depressing and thoroughly unprofitable place. Rather would he gather together his little all, and resume the wild wandering hunter life away in the far interior, and hand in hand with this resolve Christopher Selwood’s offer stood forth alluringly. Dear old Sunningdale! Life near there might be worth living after all—Violet Avory apart. But then arose the absurd scruples of a sensitive nature. Quick, to the verge of folly, in benefiting others, when it became a question of himself the recipient of a good turn Renshaw’s pride rose up in an effective barrier. And although the tie of friendship between them was closer than might have been that of brotherhood, he could recognise, or thought he could, in Selwood’s offer—a disguised method of conferring a favour upon himself. Not that he failed to appreciate it, but he could not bring himself to lie under an obligation even to his dearest friend. A strange character that of this man, so self-sacrificing and so single-hearted; so sensitive, so scrupulous in the most delicate fibres of the mind and conscience, yet adamant in the face of peril; strong, resourceful when confronted with privation. A character formed of a life of solitude and hardship, a character that would be an anachronism—an anomaly—in the whirring clatter of old world and money-grubbing life.
“Hallo, Fanning! What has become of you?”
The loud, jovial hail of his mercurial friend recalled him to himself and the duties of hospitality. Sell on, tired of his own company, had lounged to the door.
“I thought you had concluded to go on the hunt for your runaway nigger, old chap,” he said, as the other came up.