“The last for choice,” answered Gerard. “We have had about enough of Durban already. You see, we don’t know a soul here,” he hurried to explain, lest the other should think him fastidious or fault-finding; for there is no point on which the colonial mind is so touchy as on that of the merits or demerits of its own particular town or section.
“And feel rather ‘out of it.’ Quite so,” rejoined Mr Kingsland. “But didn’t you say, Ridgeley, you had friends in Maritzburg to whom you were consigned?”
“Not that exactly. I have a distant relative up there—Anstey his name is—perhaps you know him? I believe he manages a store, or something of that kind.”
“N-no, I can’t say I do. There’s Anstey out Greytown way; but he’s a farmer.”
“Oh no, that’s not the man. This one hasn’t got an ounce of farming in him. The fact is, I don’t know him. My mother—my people, that is—thought he might be able to put me into the way of doing something, so I have got a letter to him.”
“And what is the ‘something’ you are thinking of doing, Ridgeley?” said Mr Kingsland, fixing his eyes upon Gerard’s face.
“I’m afraid I must take whatever turns up—think myself lucky to get it. But, for choice, I should like above all things to get on a farm.”
“H’m! Most young fellows who come out here are keen on that at first. They don’t all stick to it, though—not they. They begin by fancying it’s going to be no end of a jolly life, all riding about and shooting. But it isn’t, not by any means. It’s regular downright hard work, and a rough life at that.”
“That I’m quite prepared for,” said Gerard. “I only wish I could get the chance.”
“Rather. It just is rough work,” went on Mr Kingsland, ignoring the last remark. “There’s no such thing as saying to a fellow ‘Do this,’ and he does it. You’ve got to show him the way and begin by doing it yourself. You’ve got to off with your coat and work as hard as the rest. How do you like the idea of that, in a blazing sun about as hot again as it is to-day? Eh, Maitland?”