“Curse that cucumber-plant!” said Ernest, emphatically, “it won’t grow. I tell you what it is, Jeremy, I am sick of this place; I vote we go away.”
“For goodness’ sake, Ernest, let us have a little rest; you do rattle one about so in those confounded post-carts,” replied Jeremy, yawning.
“I mean, go away from South Africa altogether.”
“Oh,” said Jeremy, dragging his great frame into an upright position, “the deuce you do! And where do you want to go to—England?”
“England! no, I have had enough of England. South America, I think. But perhaps you want to go home. It is not fair to keep dragging you all over the world.”
“My dear fellow, I like it, I assure you. I have no wish to return to Mr. Cardus’s stool. For goodness’ sake don’t suggest such a thing; I should be wretched.”
“Yes, but you ought to be doing something with your life. It is all very well for me, who am a poor devil of a waif and stray, to go on with this sort of existence, but I don’t see why you should; you should be making your way in the world.”
“Wait a bit, my hearty!” said Jeremy, with his slow smile; “I am going to read you a statement of our financial affairs which I drew up last night. Considering that we have been doing nothing all this time except enjoy ourselves, and that all our investments have been made out of income, which no doubt your respected uncle fancies were dissipated, I do not think that the total is so bad. And Jeremy read:
“Landed property in Natal and the Transvaal,
estimated value . . . . . . £2500
This house . . . . . . . 940
Stocks—waggons, &c., say . . . . 300
Race-horses . . . . . . .
——–
I have left that blank.”