“So!” he said. “Yes, it’s always that way. Mosquitoes are always death on a new man out from home. They don’t think much of us old stagers when they can get fresh blood. But never mind. You’ll soon get used to that.”
Which was all the sympathy they met with.
Chapter Three.
A Friend.
“Well, youngsters! And what have you been doing with yourselves since you got ashore?”
Thus a jolly voice behind them, and a hand fell upon the shoulder of each. They were returning from a couple of hours’ row among the bushy islets of the bay, and were strolling down the main street of Durban, stopping here and there to look at a shop window crammed with quaint curios and Kafir truck, or displaying photographic views representing phases of native life and scenes up-country.
“Mr Kingsland!” cried Gerard, turning with a lively sense of satisfaction. “Why, I thought you were going straight through.”
“So I was—so I was. But I ran against some fellows directly I landed, and they wouldn’t hear of my leaving Durban yesterday—or to-day either. And now you’d better come along with me to the Royal and have some lunch.”