Mr Brathwaite is very proud of his choice and well-bred animals. He knows every hoof of them like ABC, almost every hair; and as they walk about among the beasts he entertains his companion with the history of each, and where it came from, and the events of its career in life.
“Hullo! Who’s this?” said Claverton suddenly, as two horsemen appeared on the brow of the opposite hill. “One’s Hicks, the other looks like, uncommonly like, Jim.”
“Yes, it is Jim,” assented Mr Brathwaite. “What’s brought him over this morning, I wonder?” The said Jim was his eldest son. He was a married man, and lived on a farm of his own some fifteen or sixteen miles off. A few minutes more, and the two horsemen drew rein in front of the cattle kraal.
“Hullo, Arthur!” sang out Jim, jumping to the ground. “Here we are again! Hicks told me I should find you here, of all people. Morning, father! Have Ethel and Laura arrived yet?”
“I believe so. I saw Jeffreys’ trap coming over the hill about an hour ago, and he was to bring them. I was busy and couldn’t go in then. My brother’s children, Arthur,” he explained, noting a surprised look in his guest’s face. “They have come from Cape Town to stay a couple of months while their father is away up the country.”
“Come to enliven us up a bit,” said jovial Jim. “Ethel will lead you a life of it, or I’m a Trojan.”
Jim Brathwaite was a fine, handsome fellow of thirty-five, over six feet in height, strong as a bull and active as a leopard. His bronzed and bearded countenance was stamped with that air of dashing intrepidity with which a genial disposition usually goes hand in hand. He was a quick-tempered man, and his native dependents stood in considerable awe of him, for they knew—some of them to their cost—that he would stand no nonsense. Of untiring energy, and with all his father’s practical common sense, he had prospered exceedingly in good times, and had managed to hold his own against bad ones. Shrewd and clear-headed, he was thoroughly well able to look after his own interests; and any one given to sharp practice or rascality—whether cattle dealer or Dutchman, Kafir or Hottentot—would have to get up very early indeed to reach the blind side of him.
Claverton had been on very intimate terms with the Brathwaites some years previously. They had been good friends to him in the earlier days of his wandering life, and he had a warm regard for them. It was more than pleasant, he thought, being among them again, laughing over many a reminiscence evoked by the jest-loving Jim as they strolled towards the house.
The long, low dining-room looked invitingly cool after the glare and heat outside. Mrs Brathwaite, who was seated at the table, scolded them playfully for keeping breakfast waiting. Beside her sat a girl—a beautiful creature, with large blue eyes fringed with curling lashes, and a sparkling, dimpled rosebud of a face made for capriciousness and kisses. The masses of her golden hair, drawn back from the brows, were allowed to fall in a rippling shower below her waist, and a fresh, cool morning-dress set off her neat little figure to perfection.
“Arthur. This is my niece, Ethel,” said Mrs Brathwaite.