“Live? Now there’s a jolly old stupid. Just as if you were ever going to feel anything else. Look here, Joe: I shall have to make an alteration. I’ve been spoiling you, giving you too many good things. And to begin with, I think I’ll cut your hair.”
“Isn’t it short enough?” said Emson rather piteously, as he feebly raised his hand to his temples.
“Yes, there: it looks nice and fashionable. But all down at the back it’s like Breezy’s mane.”
“Then you shall cut it, Dyke.”
“Ah-h-h!”
“Well then, young un. But how is poor Breezy?”
“Getting wild for want of riding. I went toward her yesterday, and she began dancing a pas-de-deux-legs on her fore-hoofs, and sparred at the sky with her hind. Wait a bit, and you and I’ll take some of the steam out of her and Longshanks. We’ll hunt out no end of ostriches’ nests in the farther-off part of the veldt. Here, what are you shaking your jolly old head for? It’s been quite shaky enough, hasn’t it?”
“I was thinking of the ostrich-farming, little un,” said Emson sadly. “No, my lad, no more time wasted over that. Two hundred years hence they may have got a more manageable strain of domesticated birds that will live well in confinement. We’ve had our try, and failed.”
“Bah! Not half tried. I haven’t. No, Joe, we won’t give up. We’ll do it yet. Why, it was that black scoundrel Jack who caused half the mischief. Oh, Joe, if I could only have caught him when he was knocking those poor young birds on the head, and had my gun with me.”
“What! would you have shot at him, young un?”