"Hallo, old chap!" shouted his friend. "The others are about half-an-hour behind. Thought I would ride ahead and prepare you. What have you been doing to yourself?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, don't mind what I say, but you look a bit of a guy, you know. Your coat's too tight, and your waistcoat too short: are they the things you wore at school? Your tie's wriggling round to your ear; and your trousers display a good deal of ankle--d'you know that you've got on odd socks?"
"Hang it all, Charley, what shall I do? I've got nothing else but khaki and drill, and I can't show up in those."
"Don't see why. The women won't expect to find Bond Street fashions here, and if you'll take my tip you'll tumble out of those things as soon as possible, and rig up in your usual toggery."
"You really think they won't mind?"
"Of course not. Hurry up; you'll just have time."
John dashed off with a feeling of unutterable relief. He pitched his tie and collar into a corner, crushed his suit into a drawer, regardless of creases, and in ten minutes reappeared in flannel shirt and clean white drill, feeling at ease.
In less than half-an-hour the party arrived, six in all, Mr. Gillespie having accompanied them. Their safari was still some miles in the rear.
"How d'you do, John?" said the elder lady, as he helped her to dismount. "I am Mrs. Burtenshaw--still!"