“One has fallen over this cliff, Patolo,” said Manamandhla, as calmly as though no deadly tragedy had been averted by a mere moment of time. Then to Thornhill: “Nkose, had I not better go over to the location and collect some boys to skin and cut up the beef? It may be that there is some of it yet uninjured and good enough for the Great House.”
“That you had better do, Manamandhla,” answered Thornhill, with equal sang-froid. “And lose no time, before it grows dark.”
And, turning, he left them, to go back to where he had left his horse.
This was how Manamandhla obtained the beef he hankered after—and plenty of it.
Chapter Fourteen.
Manamandhla’s Strategy.
A week went by, and Thornhill got an answer to his letter. His son could not possibly get away just then. His partner was seriously ill, and as for business—why, if not as brisk as might be wished, there was quite enough of it to keep one man’s hands full. He was awfully sorry, but would take a run down as soon as ever he could break away. So wrote Hyland.
Thornhill was bitterly disappointed. He seemed to feel it far more than he had thought it possible for him to do. He would have given much at that juncture to have had the boy at his side, he told himself. He felt very isolated, very much alone. Edala, though now and then she broke out into fits of playfulness—and these, he suspected, were, more often than not, forced—yet kept up a sort of dutiful reserve towards him. There was no spontaneity in her affection, even when any sign of possession of any such sentiment did appear. Well, ingratitude was ingrained in the female. No one had better reason to realise that than himself.