“Redgy, you villain!” exclaimed George, after they had retreated to their room and given vent to their laughter,—“Redgy, you villain, that was your doing!”
“It was the plug of gunpowder, not I,” pleaded Redgy. “Mrs Rivers oughtn’t to have left the candle all that time on Thyrza’s dressing-table.”
“Did Thyrza know anything of the trick?” asked George.
“On my honour, she did not.”
“Well, it is a good job we are going to-morrow, or there might be a serious row about this.”
Chapter Twenty Two.
It was a Sunday evening late in December, about nine months after the departure of George Rivers and his friend from Umtongo. George, who wore a suit of clerical black, had just returned from a long ride to Spielman’s Vley, where he had passed the day. He was now a deacon, having been ordained by the Bishop of Praetoria a month or two previously. The weather was delicious, but very warm, and George was glad to sit down by his friend’s side in a charming little summer-house which they had built under the shade of a tall eucalyptus planted by Mr Rogers when he first came to the Transvaal, forty years before.
“Well, George, what sort of a congregation had you?” inquired Margetts; “and how did you get on with your sermon?”