How different his craven, crestfallen look, from the swell, swaggering sportsman of the morning! while the condition of his person was not more dilapidated than that of his spirit.
It was no longer the disgrace of returning with an empty game-bag, but the chagrin which he expected to have to undergo, presenting himself at Mount Welcome in the “pickle” in which his adventure had left him.
He was now even in a more ludicrous plight than when Quaco had extracted him from the hollow tree: for the rain, that had long since ceased, had been succeeded by a blazing hot sun, and the atmosphere acting upon what remained of his wet fawn-skin trousers, caused them to shrink until the ragged edges had crept up to mid-thigh; thus leaving a large section of thin knock-kneed legs between them and the tops of his boots!
In truth, the sportsman had become the beau ideal of a “guy”; and, more than half conscious of this fact, he would at that moment have given the situation of book-keeper on his estate to any individual who should have presented him with a pair of pantaloons.
His guide could do nothing for him. In the line of inexpressibles Quaco was no better provided than himself.
Verily, the prospect was appalling!
Could he reach the house, and steal to his own chamber unseen? What chance was there of his doing so?
On reflection, not much. Mount Welcome, like all other mansions in Jamaica, was a cage—open on every side. It was almost beyond the bounds of probability that he could enter the house unobserved.
Still, he could try, and on the success of that trial rested his only hope. Oh, for that grand secret known only to the jealous Juno—the secret of rendering one’s-self invisible! What would Smythje not have given for a ten minutes’ hire of that Carthaginian cloud?
The thought was really in his mind; for Smythje, like all young Englishmen of good family, had studied the classics.