"What accident?"
Ah! what accident! Roland's eyes opened to their utmost width with surprise, as he listened to the answer.
"Good heavens! And it was caused, you say, by Gerald Yorke?"
"That it was, sir."
"Why, he's my brother."
"Well, sir, accidents happen unintentional to the best of us," observed the man, striving to be polite. "Some of 'em said that the gentleman didn't show himself 'cute at handling of a gun."
"I don't believe he ever handled one in his life before," avowed impulsive Roland. "What a fool he must have been! How is Sir Vincent going on? I'm sure I hope it was no great damage."
"Sir Vincent was going on all right till today, sir; and as to the damage it was not thought to be much. We hear now that it has taken a turn for the worse. They talk of erysipelas."
"Oh, that's nothing," said Roland. "I knew a fellow who got erysipelas in the face at Port Natal till it was as big as a pumpkin, but he did his work all the same. That's it," he mentally decided, as they approached the house. "Poor Dick, confined indoors, can't look after things himself, and is going to put me to do it."
Upon a flat bed, or couch, in the downstairs room, where we saw him breakfasting with Gerald, lay Sir Vincent Yorke, his dog beside him. He held out his hand to greet Roland. Impulsively and rather explosively, that unsophisticated African traveller burst out with regrets on the score of the accident, and the more especially that it should have been caused by Gerald.