“No—there’s no sport in chikór shooting. The chikór is the most unsporting bird in the world. He won’t rise to be shot at.”
“What on earth do we stay on here for then?” says the elder of the two children, who, like many Indian and colonially raised children, is not slow to volunteer an opinion. “I wish we were going back to Shâlalai to-morrow.”
“So do I,” cuts in the other promptly.
“Oh—do you!” responds her parent mingling for himself a “peg”—“Why, the other day you were all for getting into camp. You were sick of Shâlalai, and everybody in it.”
“Well, we are not now. It’s beastly here, and always raining,” says the younger one, teasing a little fox terrier under the table until it yelps and snarls.
“Do go on with your dinner, Hazel, and leave the dog alone,” urges her mother in the mildest tone of gentle remonstrance.
“Oh, all right,” with a pout and flounce. She is a queer, dark-complexioned little elf is Hazel, with a vast mane of hair nearly as large as herself—and loth to accept reproof or injunction without protest—The other laughs meaningly, and then a squabble arises—for they are prone to squabbling—which is finally quelled.
“Well, and what do you think, Miss Cheriton?” says Upward turning to their guest, when this desirable result has been achieved. “Are you sick of camp yet?”
“N-no—I don’t think I am—At least—of course I’m not.”
“I’m afraid Nesta does find it slow,” puts in Mrs Upward—But before Nesta Cheriton can utter a disclaimer, the other of the two children gives a whistle.