Chapter Seven.
The Tangi.
“It’s a thundering mistake allowing these fellows to wander all over the country armed, like that,” said Upward, commenting on their late visitors, while preparations were being made for a start. “They are never safe while they carry about those beastly tulwars. A fellow may take it into his head to cut you down at any moment. If he has nothing to do it with he can’t; if he has he will. Government ought to put the Arms Act into force.”
“Then there’d be a row,” suggested Campian.
“Let there be. Anything rather than this constant simmering. Not a week passes but some poor devil gets stuck when he least expects it—in broad daylight, too—on a railway station platform, or in the bazaar, or anywhere. For my part, I never like to have any of these fellows walking close behind me.”
“No, I don’t want either of you. I’ve had enough of you both for to-day. I’m going to ride with Mr Campian now. I want to talk to him a little.”
Thus Nesta Cheriton’s clear voice, which of course carried far enough to be heard by the favoured one, as she intended it should. The pair of discomfited warriors twirled their moustaches with mortification, but their way of accepting the situation was characteristic, for while Fleming laughed good-humouredly, if a trifle ruefully, Bracebrydge’s tone was nasty and sneering, as he replied:
“Variety is charming, they say, Miss Cheriton. Good thing for some of us we are not all alike—ah—ha—ha!”
“I quite agree with you there,” tranquilly remarked Campian, at whom this profoundly original observation was levelled. Then he assisted Nesta to mount.