“Not she. She’s always been dead against her sister leaving Stannard. Thinks that while there’s life there’s hope of reformation, even in such a double-dyed sheep as he is. I bet if Mrs Stannard does go, she’ll stay behind and nurse Stan through—and the Doc says he’s got ’em bad this time—rats and cats and purple elephants.”
“I don’t care what colour the menagerie is as long as it keeps Miss van Rimmel here.”
“Me neither,” averred Hallam elegantly.
They became aware of Bettington’s sardonic presence, and dropped the subject as if it burnt.
“As I was saying,” remarked Randal briskly, “we had better take fifty pounds of that dried buck off that Boer. It’s the best biltong I’ve struck since I dunno when.”
“Right you are!” Hallam began to write in his note book. Randal turned his attention to the thoughtful journalist.
“What about your lions, Bet? Still think of going out to look for them?”
Bet regarded him pensively.
“So I am to have the society of a pretty lady between here and Beira?” he remarked.
“You? Who said so?” Randal’s voice sounded slightly aggressive. “I suppose there are other people besides you on those waggons, Bettington?”