Harold Joyce, his face radiant, a merry smile on his lips, issued on to the deck, slate in hand, and ran to Mr. Blunt. A disreputable-looking object he appeared, too, for he had merely a shirt, socks, and overall trousers to clothe him, and they were by no means improved by his immersion during the night.
"Fish first, sir?" he cried, as he pushed his slate before Mr. Blunt and pointed to the letters scrawled in chalk. "We found a good supply, which was quite fresh. Then we come to eggs, poached or boiled, sir?"
"'Pon my word, trust youngsters to look after a meal!" laughed the owner of the estancia. "And what a feast it is, to be sure! Fish, eggs, toast and coffee! A bill of fare fit for a king! Boiled, please, Harold, and if there is a good supply I can manage two. By the way, lad, what about that wound? I had forgotten it entirely, for you have not even mentioned it."
Harold flushed to his eyes again. "It's nothing at all," he said hastily. "It did not even keep me awake. However, you may see it if you wish."
His shirt was all stained with blood about one shoulder. Mr. Blunt therefore at once helped him to slip the garment off. Then he examined the wound critically; living as he did miles away from a settlement, he had in course of time become quite accomplished in the art of treating hurts, for the gauchos often came to grief.
"I should not make so little of it as you do," he said with one of his friendly smiles. "However, the ball has done no great damage. It struck the very edge, slipped under the skin, and flew out again. The wound is little more than skin deep, it is true, but none the less painful. As soon as we get back to our own vessel I will dress it, for I have nothing with me here. Now let us have that breakfast; I admit that I have a huge appetite."
It was a merry party which sat down in the tiny cabin below, and the jollity of the trio was not a little due to the good fare placed before them. Dudley had long since had lessons in camp cooking from Pietro and the other gauchos, and could poach an egg so well that even the most delicate appetite would be tempted by it. He was an expert in the manufacture of steaming coffee, and with Harold's help had produced an excellent repast.
"It was my first experience of cooking," laughed Harold, as he tackled a piece of fish, "and I confess I like the work. It interests me, and I shall devote heaps of time to it. Then I mean to learn how to ride these American horses, and how to shoot. Dud has been telling me something about it all, and I am sure I shall enjoy the life of the rancho."
"Take your lessons from him, then," answered Mr. Blunt. "He can shoot, as even the gauchos admit, and they are very grudging with their praise in that respect. He has a good seat in the saddle, and above all he knows how to work with the men. That is a great secret. The manager, the officer, even the proprietor of a business, who has a way with his men, who studies their comfort, respects them, and gains their sympathy, while at the same time insisting on obedience, gains as well their respect. You must make that your aim, lad. Show the men that you can ride and shoot, that you are not afraid even of Indians, and then they will be friends of yours. That reminds me; there are Indians near the rancho. You will have to expect sudden raids, and there is not the slightest doubt that now we who live on the rancho shall carry our lives in our hands. Now, does that deter you?"
Harold shook his head vigorously.