“So that you could say, ‘Ah, you should see the veldt where the sun shines brightly for weeks together.’”
“Sun shines!” cried Dyke. “Here, look at my face and hands.”
“Yes; they’re burnt of good Russia leather colour, like mine, Dyke. Well, what do you say? Shall we pack the wagon, give it up, and trek slowly back to Cape Town?”
“Yes, I’m ready!” cried the boy eagerly.
“Get out, you confounded young fibber! I know you better than that.”
“No, you don’t,” said Dyke sulkily.
“Yes, I do, Dicky. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re not of that breed, my boy. You’ve got too much of the old dad’s Berserker blood in your veins. Oh, come, now: withdraw all that! British boys don’t look back when they’ve taken hold of the plough handles.”
“Bother the plough handles!”
“By all means, boy; but, I say, that isn’t English, Dyke. Where would our country’s greatness have been if her sons had been ready to sing that coward’s song?”
“Now you’re beginning to preach again, Joe,” said the boy sulkily.