“A little better, but—oh dear me!—I begin to despair of getting well enough to go home, and it’s impossible to avoid being worried, for, unless father is sought for and found soon he, will probably sink altogether. You have no idea, Charlie, what a fearful temptation drink becomes to those who have once given way to it and passed a certain point.”
“I don’t know it personally—though I take no credit for that—but I have some idea of it, I think, from what I have seen and heard. But I came to relieve your mind on the subject, Shank. I wanted to speak with Dick Darvall first to see if he would fall in with my plan, but as I can’t find him just now I thought it best to come straight to you about it. Hallo! There is Dick.”
“Where?” said Shank, bending forward so as to see the place on which his friend’s eyes were fixed.
“There, don’t you see? Look across that bit of green sward, about fifty yards into the bush, close to that lopped pine where a thick shrub overhangs a fallen tree—”
“I see—I see!” exclaimed Shank, a gleeful expression banishing for a time the look of suffering and anxiety that had become habitual to him. “Why, the fellow is seated beside Mary Jackson!”
“Ay, and holding a very earnest conversation with her, to judge from his attitude,” said Charlie. “Probably inquiring into the market-price of steers—or some absorbing topic of that sort.”
“He’s grasping her hand now!” exclaimed Shank, with an expanding mouth.
“And she lets him hold it. Really this becomes interesting,” observed Charlie, with gravity. “But, my friend, is not this a species of eavesdropping? Are we not taking mean advantage of a pair who fondly think themselves alone? Come, Shank, let us turn our backs on the view and try to fix our minds on matters of personal interest.”
But the young men had not to subject themselves to such a delicate test of friendship, for before they could make any attempt to carry out the suggestion, Dick and Mary were seen to rise abruptly and hasten from the spot in different directions. A few minutes later Buttercup was observed to glide upon the scene and sit down upon the self-same fallen tree. The distance from the bedroom window was too great to permit of sounds reaching the observers’ ears, or of facial contortions meeting their eyes very distinctly, but there could be no doubt as to the feelings of the damsel, or the meaning of those swayings to and fro of her body, the throwing back of her head, and the pressing of her hands on her sides. Suddenly she held out a black hand as if inviting some one in the bush to draw near. The invitation was promptly accepted by a large brown dog—a well-known favourite in the ranch household.
Rover—for such was his name—leaped on the fallen tree and sat down on the spot which had previously been occupied by the fair Mary. The position was evidently suggestive, for Buttercup immediately began to gesticulate and clasp her hands as if talking very earnestly to the dog.