Then up we went. We were in luck. An old gentleman at the top was watching our ascent from under his white umbrella. We said “good afternoon,” and passed along some little way, and at a sign from Peter I got into hiding.
Peter ran back. “Oh!” he cried, “I fear my young friend has fallen over the cliff.”
“Dear me, dear me,” said the old gentleman, looking bewilderedly round, “so he must have. How very, very terrible.”
“But it won’t hurt him, will it?”
“Hurt him? why he’ll be cat’s meat by this time.”
“Oh, you don’t know my friend,” said Peter. “He’s a perfect little gutta-percha ball, he is.”
Then he shouted, “Jill—Jill, are you hurt?”
And when Jill presently came puffing and blowing up the ladder, and making pretence to dust his jacket, that old gentleman’s face was such a picture of mingled amazement and terror that I felt sorry for him; so I suddenly appeared on the scene, and, according to Peter, thus spoiled the sport.
Jill and I had built all sorts of castles in the air anent our arrival at Cape Town, and the meeting with our darling mother and brave papa. We were not in the least little bit afraid of a scolding from either.