“Since what I have heard of you,” he returned, “might be calculated to make you vain, I’ll spare your modesty. As for my own reputation!” He laughed suddenly. “That wouldn’t pay for whitewashing, would it, boys?”
He gazed round on the group with the laugh still in his eyes. Rentoul, who had given the advice against mixing one’s liquor, looked up owlishly.
“You never done a dirty trick, Tom,” he said... “Nothin’ mean about you. Gimme your ’and, me boy. No need for whitewashing... What say?—Tom’s all ri’, ain’t ’e?”
Hayhurst flung himself down on the hearth beside him, and stretched his legs, encased in dusty gaiters, towards the fire.
“Tom’s a good sort,” Rentoul continued, blinking round on the rest... “Always said so—goo’ sort!—but fond of his liquor. You’re drunk, Tom... Been takin’ wets along the road.”
Hayhurst laughed again.
“The veld’s so overstocked with pubs—ain’t it?” he said.
“Here, hand out the plates, someone—will you?—this mess is ready,” announced the chef.
There was a general move. The clattering of plates and knives superseded the talk; and for a fairly lengthy interval conversation gave place entirely to the sound of hungry men feeding noisily in rude and primitive fashion.