“A charge of treble A was good enough this time—no, I think I used loepers,” laughed Blachland.
“I almost began to believe in it myself,” went on the girl. “Some of our best shots around here seemed invariably to miss that particular buck, Mr Earle for instance, and Stephanus Bosch, and, I was nearly saying—father—”
“Oh don’t, then,” laughed Bayfield. “A prophet has no honour in his own country. Keep up the tradition, Lyn.”
“And, as for the Englishman, the one that came over here with the Earles, why he missed it both barrels, and they drove it right over him too.”
“By the way, Lyn,” said her father, “what was that Britisher’s name? I’ve clean forgotten.”
“That’s not strange, for you’ll hardly believe it, but so have I.”
“Um—ah—no, we won’t believe it. A good-looking young fellow like that!”
“Even then I’ve forgotten it. Yes, he was a nice-looking boy.”
“Boy!” cried her father. “Why, the fellow must be a precious deal nearer thirty than twenty.”
“Well, and what’s that but a boy?”