“Well, not yet,” was the answer, somewhat reluctantly given.
“As you are strong, be merciful,” put in Claverton, thereby drawing down upon himself another indignant glance.
Our friend Hicks, like many a greater man, had his weaknesses. One of these was a passion for sport. He would lay himself out to the most arduous labours in the heat of the day, and forego many an hour of well-earned rest at night, in the pursuit of his favourite pastime. Not that his efforts were always crowned with the success they deserved—indeed, it was the exception rather than the rule if they were so—but the mere pleasure of having his gun in his hand, expecting, Micawber-like, something to turn up, satisfied him. When he first came to Seringa Vale he had been in the habit of starting off in quest of game at times when by no possibility could he have obtained a shot, and under such circumstances had been known to empty his gun at such small fry as spreuws or meercats rather than not discharge it at all. But whatever he let off his gun at, it didn’t make the least difference to the object under fire. He never hit anything, and much good-humoured chaff was habitually indulged in at his expense. “He couldn’t hit a house, couldn’t Hicks,” Mr Brathwaite was wont to observe jocosely, “unless he were put inside and all the doors and shutters barred up.” Which witticism Jim would supplement by two or three of his own. But the subject of this rallying was the very essence of good humour. He didn’t mind any amount of chaff, and devoted himself to the pursuit of ferae naturae with a perseverance which was literally as laid down by the copy-books—its own reward.
“I move that we all go down and look at the ostriches,” suggested Ethel, ever anxious to be on the move.
“Who seconds that?” said Jim, looking around. “Now, then, Arthur!”
“As junior member my innate modesty forbids,” was the reply.
“That is meant satirically, Mr Claverton,” cried Ethel. “You deserve to be voted out of the expedition, and if you don’t apologise you shall be.”
“Then I withdraw the innate modesty. What—that not enough? Then there’s nothing for it but a pistol or a pipe. Of the two evils here goes for the pipe. Hicks, we haven’t blown our cloud this morning.” He saw how the land lay.
“Er—well, you see—er—that is—er—I mean,” stammered Hicks, who, good-natured fellow, shrank from refusing outright. “Er—the fact is, I’ve got to go down and feed the ostriches some time, so I may as well go now.”
“Well, I am surprised at you, Mr Hicks,” said Ethel. “So the pleasure of our company counts as nothing. You deserve to be put on the stool of repentance too.”