I know of nothing more funny than the sudden and unexpected descent of any one into deep water. The utter woefulness, combined with an indignant air of injured innocence, which the sufferer’s countenance invariably assumes on emerging, should make a cat laugh; anyhow, nothing human can stand against it. And the savagely furious way in which the patient hisses between his chattering teeth, “What the devil is there to grin at?” While the tout ensemble, his garments clinging to his shivering carcase, is in no wise calculated to invest his just exasperation with the majesty of outraged dignity.
Poor Hicks formed no exception. Everybody was convulsed; one of the Kafirs to such an extent, that he could do nothing but roll on the ground in the exuberance of his glee, though he managed to recover sufficiently to dart out of the way just in time to avoid a mighty kick aimed at his nether quarters by the infuriated object of his mirth.
“There’s something for you to grin at, you sooty son of a Cheshire cat!” exclaimed Hicks, savagely; but, as we have seen, he missed his aim, and in a minute had recovered all his wonted good humour.
The sheep gave no more trouble, but went through after that as if they liked it. Two or three turned over in the water, and were rescued as previously described, while one died; but these accidents were inevitable, and soon the flock was straggling away across the veldt to its feeding ground—white, clean, and freshened up.
When they reached home, the dining-room table was strewn with letters and newspapers. The postbag, which was fetched from the nearest agency once a week, had just arrived, and as they entered, Mrs Brathwaite was reading a letter aloud for the public benefit. The writer stated her intention of profiting by an unexpectedly early opportunity, and availing herself of a long-standing and oft-repeated invitation to visit them at Seringa Vale, in about a fortnight from then, and subscribed herself: “Lilian Strange.”
“Poor thing!” said Mr Brathwaite. “We’ll soon bring the roses back to her cheeks. A couple of months of this splendid air, and she’ll be that strong and sunburnt they Won’t know her when she goes back.”
And the kindly, hospitable old couple went on discussing their prospective visitor and her joys and sorrows, past, present, and to come; projecting all manner of schemes for making her stay an enjoyable and a happy one.
There was one present whom this letter had set thinking, and that was Claverton. The name seemed familiar and yet not, for he couldn’t for the life of him fit it to an individual.
“Lilian—Lilian Strange—Lilian,” he kept repeating to himself. “Now where the deuce have I come across that name before? Lilian—it’s a pretty name, too. No, I can’t remember for the life of me.” He could see the writing as the letter lay open on the table. It was rather large and very distinct, but not masculine. But neither it nor memory seemed to aid him, and he gave it up.
“What is she like, aunt?” asked Ethel. “And what sort of age is she? Young or middling?”