“Indeed!” said a third voice, making them both start as if they had been shot.
A man stood in the doorway, contemplating them with a satirical grin.
“Goodness gracious!” cried Annie, with a little shriek. “Why, it’s George himself.”
“Well, and what if it is?” retorted that worthy, quizzically, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the door-post. “Mayn’t a fellow walk into his own house, or rather into old Sievers’—infernal old skinflint that he is—hasn’t had that chimney put right yet!” And thus, characteristically, George Payne effected his return to the bosom of his family as if he had never left that desirable ark.
“Oh, George, how I maligned you!” cried his wife, penitently. “I made sure you wouldn’t be back for a couple of months at least. Once up there I thought you’d stay, and go getting yourself assegaied most likely.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, my dear. But, the fact is, Johnny Kafir’s beginning to have about enough, and is skulking away in the Perie; when he hasn’t surrendered already, as is the case up Queenstown way. Brathwaite’s men are all talking of coming back soon, and—”
“Pa, where’s my Kafir assegai?” cried Harry, bursting into the room.
“Eh, what—where’s your—? In the bush, sonny. Never mind, though. You shall have a stack of them soon, but not those that have been shied at me,” replied Payne, passing his hand over the curly head of his first-born. “That’s how the rising generation welcomes its paternal ancestor returning from the wars—asks for scalps the first thing. Well, Miss Lilian,” he continued, in his bantering way, “I told you to keep your spirits up, and that all would come right, didn’t I; and it about has. Come along, Annie; we’ll leave her to make it lively for that chap who sends me on to prepare the way before him, and then doesn’t give me half time to do it.” Lilian followed his glance. A man was dismounting at the gate, in hot haste. She needed no second glance to assure her of his identity.