“Going up to Jim Brathwaite’s for the hunt to-morrow, Oom Isaac?” asked Armitage of his host. (Note 1.)
“Ja,” replied old Van Rooyen. “Can he shoot?” designating Claverton—the popular idea on the frontier being that an “imported” Briton must necessarily be an ass in all things pertaining to field pursuits.
“He just can. Didn’t you hear how he licked the Pexters down at my place?”
“Yes, I did hear that; I remember now;” and the Dutchman looked at Claverton with increased respect.
“But that’s the fellow to bring down a buck at five hundred yards,” went on Armitage, indicating Allen, who, regardless of what went on around him, was making terrific play with his knife and fork, and who, although seated next the speaker, remained in blissful unconsciousness of being the subject of any chaff, by reason of his ignorance of the Dutch language.
“Is he now? I shouldn’t have thought that,” was the deliberating reply; the matter-of-fact Boer not dreaming for a moment that the other was gammoning him.
And the ball of conversation rolled on, and the unseasoned stew was succeeded by a ponderous jar of quince preserve, then another lengthy grace and the inevitable coffee.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Van Rooyen, with the freedom of his countrymen, was discussing “present company.”
“What a pretty girl she is!” he was saying, referring to Ethel. “Is she another of Mr Brathwaite’s daughters?”
“No, a niece,” replied Naylor, to whom the remark was addressed. “Her father is George Brathwaite, the M.L.A.”