As the rain had not abated Nairn insisted upon their remaining overnight. He was pleasant, courteous, and most interesting, full of the strangest and most intimate knowledge of the country and the natives. He frequently illustrated remarks by references to other countries and other people, but neither of his guests cared to put the direct question as to whether he had been to those countries or only read of them. He gave no information about himself Geddy was not satisfied with this, and with his sense of what is due to one’s host somewhat dulled—doubtless by the recollection of his previous visit—took every opportunity of leading up to those topics which Nairn most avoided, but which Geddy hoped would throw a light upon the man himself.
Beaten on the subject of the books, baffled when he led up to personal experiences, foiled gently but firmly at every attempt, Geddy at last got an inspiration and laid for a bold stroke.
They were at dinner, and the peculiarly savoury character of the stew recalled to the youngster again the question that had been puzzling him all along. Summoning all his nerve, he said with cheery zest:
“By Jove, Nairn, after months of roast mealies and tough game—without salt, too—this does taste delicious!”
“Glad you like it,” said his host quietly. “Staple dish, you know. Just stewed fowl and stamped mealies!”
“Yes, by George! but such a stew! Who—who’s your cook?”
“Well, I suppose it becomes an easy task when the bill of fare doesn’t vary once a month;” and Nairn looked up curiously at his guest.
“But how do you manage it, eh? No boy ever cooked like this.”
Nairn delayed replying until a faint guilty flush touched up the other’s cheeks, and then laughingly—and with a significant look of complete intelligence—he said:
“I was just wondering, Mr Geddy, if you were as favourably impressed with it the last time you were here?”