“Oh no, it isn’t. I shall be up to see you off.”
“But think what an ungodly hour I’m going to start at.”
“That doesn’t matter. Of course I’m going to see you off.”
“Why, rather,” struck in small Fred.
Morning dawned, frosty and clear, and the intending traveller appreciated the thick warmth of his heavy ulster to the full, as he prepared to mount to the seat of Bayfield’s buggy, beside the native boy who was to bring back the vehicle after depositing him at the district town, nearly fifty miles away. There was no apparent gloom about the trio now. They were there to give him a cheery send off.
“Well, good-bye, old chap,” cried Bayfield, as they gripped hands. “I think there’s everything in the buggy you’ll want on the way.”
“Good-bye, Bayfield, old pal,” was the hearty reply. “Good-bye, Lyn,” holding the girl’s hands in both of his, and gazing down affectionately into the sweet, pure face. “God bless you, child, and don’t forget your true and sincere old friend in too great a hurry. Fred—good-bye, old chappie.” And he climbed into his seat and was gone.
The trio stood looking after the receding vehicle until it disappeared over the roll of the hill—waving an occasional hat or a handkerchief as its occupant looked back. Then Fred broke forth:
“Man—Lyn, but Mr Blachland’s a fine chap! Tis waar, I’m sorry he’s gone—ain’t you?”