They looked up eagerly as each newcomer entered the dining-room. Breakfast was going on in the lazy, haphazard manner common to all hotels on Sunday. People strolled in at long intervals; mostly brown-faced people from up country, in summer raiment—linen and silk suits, and muslin frocks. Even in November Durban was very hot. But, though they spun out the meal to the greatest possible length, breakfast ended without any sign of the absentees. Mr. Linton went out on the verandah at last, and lit his pipe, while Norah cast fruitless glances up and down the white road, and across the terraces to the beach.
“Well, you say I mustn’t worry, but I should like to have your permission to be annoyed!” Mr. Linton said, when the pipe was satisfactorily working. “I want to go out, not to hang round the hotel. And what are we to do about those young rascals?”
“I don’t know,” Norah answered, doubtfully. “It is funny, isn’t it, Dad? I’m perfectly certain they are all right—but it’s so unlike Jim.” She hesitated. “We can’t go and find them—that’s certain; and Jim would be wild if we waited for him, and missed anything. I think we’d better go by ourselves.”
“So do I,” returned her father. “We’ll leave word that we’ll be in to luncheon, and if they come while we’re out they can amuse themselves; they are sure to want a bathe. Run and get your hat, lassie.” They went off presently, a rather forlorn looking pair.
It was about that time that Jim, in the darkness of the shed where he had been flung, stirred, and opened his eyes. His head throbbed furiously, and when he tried to sit up he found himself suddenly glad to lie back again. For a little while he remained still, trying to remember what had happened to him—with vague recollections that seemed to wander between a savage black face and an earthquake. He was not very sure about either.
A rustle in the straw close by startled him—and in a flash he remembered Wally, and forgot his aching bones. An instinct of prudence kept him from speaking. Slowly he raised himself on one arm, and felt in the darkness until he found a face, half-buried in straw. Wally stirred again.
“That you, old man?” he whispered weakly.
“Ss-h,” Jim cautioned. “Are you hurt?”
“I—don’t know,” Wally said, feebly. “I ache a heap—and my head’s queer.”
Jim set his teeth and managed to sit up. His head swam violently, and for a moment he wrestled with nausea; then he managed to steady himself, and began to feel Wally gently.