“So,” said the Dutchman with a nod of approval. “We will ride together.”
This didn’t meet Claverton’s wishes at all.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Sticks is rather lame, and I shall have to send for my other horse. They’ll hardly find him till the afternoon—if then. It won’t be worth Botha’s while to wait.”
“No. I don’t think it will,” said good-natured Mrs Brathwaite, who had taken in the situation at a glance. Lilian, not understanding the Boer dialect, was an unconscious auditor of what was going on.
Breakfast over, the Dutchman sat for about half an hour outside, smoking his pipe and talking over the usual subjects with his host—sheep, ostriches, the state of the country, how much longer they could do without rain, and so on. Then, saddling up his small, rough-looking nag, he shook hands all round and departed, thoroughly content with himself and all the world.
“What a queer fellow!” said Lilian, gazing after the awkward, receding figure of their late guest, who, with his feet jammed to the heels in the stirrups, was shuffling leisurely along, pipe in mouth.
“Yes, isn’t he?” answered Claverton. “But he’s a fair specimen of the typical Boer. Washes three times a year, sleeps in his clothes, and wears his hat in the house.”
“Lilian, dear; hadn’t you better get ready to start?” suggested Mrs Brathwaite.
“I was just thinking the same,” said Claverton; “but,” he added, in a lower tone, “I couldn’t find it in my conscience to hasten even such a temporary separation, and yet I was racked with apprehension lest some other wayfarer should turn up and make a third.”
She gave him a bright smile as she flitted indoors; then he, having got into his riding-gear, went round to the stable and simply made Jan the Hottentot groom’s life a burden to him over the caparisoning of Lilian’s steed. This bit was too sharp—that too soft—those reins were too hard for the hands—and what the devil did he mean by leaving those two specks of rust on the stirrup-iron? Jan and his deputy—an impish-looking little bushman—couldn’t make it out at all; Baas Clav’ton was usually so easy-going, and now here he was fidgeting worse than the “sir” in the long boots (Allen).