Gerard started guiltily. During those past two days it was little enough he had given a thought to, outside one all-engrossing subject which held possession of his mind.
“I’m afraid I did forget,” he said. “But what has become of him, Mr Kingsland? Have you seen anything of him lately?”
The old settler looked grave as he filled his pipe in silence.
“I’m sorry to say he came to no good,” he said at length. “The fact is, he came to something like utter grief. He wouldn’t start doing anything—got into a habit of loafing around bare—went the way of, unfortunately, many another young fellow who comes out to the Colonies—took to drink. Once he did that he was done for. Some of us did try to get him into something and keep him straight, but it was no good. He was off again and on the spree like a journeyman stonemason. Well, his father, a parson of some sort, I believe, got angry when he heard how he was going on, and cut off the supplies; and then Master Harry, after getting into a serious scrape or two—in fact, I had to bail him out once myself—goes and enlists in the Mounted Police. I myself should have left him there to serve his time if I had been his people—it might have done him good. But no; as soon as they heard of it they must move Heaven and earth and the Government to get him out of it; and it wasn’t easily managed, I can tell you, only Master Harry proved such a shocking bad hat that the police authorities were only too glad to get rid of him. His father wrote to me about him, asking me to take his passage and send him straight home again. And I did—shipped him on board—what do you think!—our old hooker the Amatikulu; and as she’s a direct boat and touches nowhere on the way, he can’t get ashore again.”
“I’m sorry the chap should have turned out so badly,” said Gerard, his mind reverting to the almost direct cut Harry Maitland had given him on the last occasion of their meeting, and when he himself was down on his luck. “By the way, what has become of Anstey?”
“They sold him up just after you left. One of his creditors took out a writ of imprisonment against him, but finding he’d got to pay so much a day while Anstey was locked up, he soon got sick of throwing good money after bad—and friend Anstey was turned loose again. He cleared out soon after—nobody knows where.”
The speaker paused for a minute or two. Then he went on—
“And now, Ridgeley, if it’s not an impertinent question from an old fellow who’s interested in your welfare, what are your own plans? I remember you telling me when you first came out here you were anxious to take to farming. Is this still your idea, or has your year of adventure—and, by Jove, you have had some adventures too!—unsettled you, unfitted you for anything but a wandering life?”
“Rather the other way, Mr Kingsland. The old idea holds good more than ever. I would like above all things to get on a farm.”
“You would, eh? Well now, look here, Ridgeley. You’ve learnt a good deal, but you’ve still a good deal to learn. I wouldn’t help you in this line at the time you landed, because, as I told you, I had two boys of my own, who were amply sufficient to manage things. Now Tom, as I also told you, is leaving me, and setting up on his own hook, and it occurs to me that if you’d like to come and take his place for a spell, and help Arthur and myself, you are heartily welcome to do so. You’d be learning your business, and also you could see whether you still liked going into the life altogether.”