“There’s Clothier’s,” the other answered; “but I’m afraid that won’t do—a grass hut, and sardines, gin, and rough customers. Charlie Brandt’s—ditto! There’s the Queen of Sheba’s at Eureka City; but, then, you’d never reach there alive—at night. Let’s see! No; there’s no fit place between this and Barberton.”
“There!” said Heron, “we’ll spend a pleasant night in the veld, rain and all. I wish we’d come on a bit further with the waggons. It will be rough on you girls.”
But they did not seem dismayed at the prospect; in fact, they considered it a romantic sort of picnic adventure. Heron, who had had malarial fever, took no count of the romance.
While the matter was being discussed, Nairn went forward and carefully examined the injured horse. Heron had decided to outspan where they were, under a big Dingaan apricot-tree, and the ladies were busy making plans for the disposal of cushions, wraps, and rugs to fend off the coming rain.
“That horse will be worse to-morrow than he is to-night. He won’t be well for weeks,” said Nairn coolly. “How do you propose getting on at all, even if you do stay here to-night? What do you gain by the delay?”
Heron was somewhat taken aback.
“Well,” he answered, “we gain the daylight, anyway; that’s something.”
“Something—yes; but daylight won’t take you through the rivers with one pair of horses. They’ll be pretty fall, too, after to-night’s rain.”
“That’s true,” said Heron gloomily; “and it’s raining like old Harry now up at the headwaters. Look at the lightning over the Kaap Valley!”
They looked, and the quick play of the distant flashes left no room for doubt. Then Nairn spoke again—without impulse, without enthusiasm, but deliberately, as though he had considered the matter and reluctantly but finally made his decision.