“How do, sir? Pleased to meet you. Not out from home, are you?” with a glance at the other’s bronzed and weather-beaten countenance.
“No. Up-country,” answered Bayfield for him. “Had fever, obliged to be careful,”—this as though explaining the voluminousness of the aforesaid wrapping.
“So? Didn’t know you had any one staying with you, Bayfield.”
“By Jove! Didn’t I mention it? Well, I wrote that brievje in a cast-iron hurry, I remember.”
“That’s nothing. The more the merrier,” heartily rejoined Earle, who was a jolly individual of about the same number of years as Blachland. “Come inside. Come inside. We’ll have breakfast directly. Who’s this?” shading his eyes to look down the road.
“That’s Fred and Jafta, and a spare horse. The youngster won’t be in the way, will he, Earle? I don’t let him shoot yet, except with an air-gun, but he was death on coming along.”
“No—no. That’s all right. Bring him along.”
Their hostess met them in the doorway. She was a large, finely built woman, with a discontented face, but otherwise rather good-looking. She was cordial enough, however, towards the new arrivals. They constituted a break in the monotony of life; moreover, she was fond of Lyn for her own sake.
“Let’s have breakfast as soon as you can, Em,” said Earle. “We want to get along. I think we’ll have a good day. There are three troops of guinea-fowl in those upper kloofs, and the hoek down along the spruit is just swarming with blekbuck.”
During these running comments a door had opened, and someone entered.