John Dawes’s humour being of the “dry” order, he did not laugh outright. His young friend was in a dream; and of its nature he was not ignorant, for Gerard had given him just such vacant answers since a wire had been handed in some two hours ago, announcing that Mr Kingsland and his daughter would take up their quarters in the Imperial Hotel during their two or three days’ sojourn in the capital, and would, in fact, arrive that evening.
“Remember what I said, just before we made acquaintance with the Igazipuza,” went on Dawes, “that you’d have some rare yarns to spin to old Kingsland? Why, those will be skim milk to all that’s happened since.”
“Rather!” assented Gerard, still vacantly, all his attention being directed towards obtaining as good a view of the gate as was possible through the sunflowers. And the other, seeing he was in no mood for conversation, forebore to tax the attention aforesaid.
On the arrival of our two friends in Maritzburg, they had been met by John Dawes’s brother William, his joint partner in that and all undertakings, who had taken the waggons and cattle—except such of the latter as had been there and then sold by public auction—away to his farm, leaving John to enjoy a spell of city life. But before he left, the two brothers had put their heads together and decided to allow Gerard a third of the profits of the expedition by way of his share. The generosity of this arrangement, far in excess of that which had been agreed upon, touched Gerard not a little.
“Shut up, man alive,” had cut in William Dawes, with a good-natured slap on the shoulder, as Gerard blurted out his thanks. “I’ve heard enough about you from Jack here to know you’ve jolly well earned whatever share we can give you. So you and he had better have a little fun after your trip, and when you’ve had enough of the city come over and give us a look up. There are a few bucks and partridges left on the place still.”
So William Dawes had departed to his farm, and Gerard had fallen upon his feet at last; which satisfactory position, what with the comfortable sum this arrangement would give him, coupled with the invaluable experience he had gained, it would be a strange thing if he did not manage to keep.
Just as the first gong was sounding for dinner, a light American “spider” drew up at the gate, and from it there descended two persons.
“By your leave, my good fellow. Would, you mind letting me pass?” said Mr Kingsland, rather testily, as struggling with a large and weighty Gladstone bag he found his ingress barred by some one who showed not the smallest disposition to stand aside.
“Don’t you know me, Mr Kingsland?”
“Know you? Eh—what! ’Pon my life I don’t,” answered the other, staring inquiringly at the bronzed, bearded young fellow before him. Then, as in a flash, “Why, it’s Ridgeley—young Ridgeley—of course! But who’d have known you! How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”