“Twenty-three—five—seven—thirty-two—six,” counted Payne. “Don’t speak to a man on his stroke—or count. Nine—forty-one—forty-four—seven hundred and forty-four. Right, Booi. Now, off you go, and keep away from old Smith’s boundary. He’s a cantankerous beggar, and I don’t want to have a tiff with him. What were you saying, Claverton?” he continued, making a playful cut at a native urchin with his whip, which the boy dodged, and gambolled away swinging his sheepskin kaross and grinning from ear to ear.
“I was saying—would it surprise you greatly to learn that I am about to perpetrate matrimony?”
Payne whistled. “N-no—I don’t know—most fellows fall victims sooner or later. And after all the knocking about you’ve had it’ll do you good to settle down for a bit. By the way—if it’s not an impertinent question—who’s the lady?”
“Lilian Strange.”
“Eh?”
“Lilian Strange.”
“The devil!”
“No—nothing of the kind. That’s deuced uncomplimentary of you when I tell you a piece of news before I’ve imparted it to any one else. In fact, I call it downright shabby,” replied Claverton in a tone of mock remonstrance, while his eyes sparkled with suppressed merriment. For Payne was staring blankly at him as if he distrusted his sense of hearing.
“But—but—Hang it all, how do you know she’ll have you? Why, you never set eyes on her till yesterday.”
Claverton laughed. “I know it because I have it from the very best authority—her own lips. And I knew her—well, long before I had the advantage of first beholding the light of your supremely honest and genial old countenance,” he said, quietly. “Come, don’t stare at a fellow as if you thought him a candidate for a glass-case, but say something decent. Make us a speech, you know.”