‘It’s little matter,’ said the stranger coolly. ‘There’s hundreds in Ireland it would suit to the letter, and proud of it they’d be. Maybe it was Tom Ffrench I was thinking of—but it’s all as one. It’s thinking he was of coming out here himself, the same squireen.’
‘I wish to Heaven he had,’ said Wilfred, with so hearty an accentuation that the stranger raised his head, apparently struck by the sudden emotion of his tone. ‘There is no man living I would as soon see this moment.’
‘So this wild counthry hasn’t knocked all the heart out of ye, Wilfred, me boy,’ said the stranger, holding out his hand, while such a smile rippled over his face as only a son of mirth-loving Erin can produce. ‘And so ye didn’t know your old chum because he had a trifle of hair on his face, and he coming ten thousand miles to make an afternoon call. I trust the ladies are well this fine weather, and haven’t had their bonnets spoiled by the rain lately.’
Wilfred gazed for one moment at the now well-known features, the bright fun-loving eyes, the humorous curves of the lips, and then grasping both hands, shook them till his stalwart visitor rocked again.
‘Gerald, old man!’ he exclaimed in tones of the wildest astonishment, ‘is it you in the flesh? and how in the name of everything magical did you ever manage to leave green Rathdown and come out to this burned-up land of ours? But you are as welcome as a week’s rain—I can’t say more than that. To think that a beard should have altered your face so! But I had no more thought of seeing you here than our old host of Castle Blake.’
‘True for you! What a brick he was! God be with the days we spent there together, Will. Maybe we’ll see them again, who knows? Didn’t I find my way here like an Indian of the woods? ’Tis a great bushman I’ll make, entirely. And, in truth, there’s no life would suit me better. An Irishman’s a born colonist, half made before he leaves old Ireland. Was that your young brother that I used to make popguns for? What a fine boy he has grown!’
‘Yes, that was Guy; he’s anxious, like you, to be a bold bushman. Let me introduce my friend Mr. Warleigh, the leader of an expedition we are all bound upon next week.’
‘Very glad to meet Mr. Warleigh, I’m sure, and I hope he’ll be kind enough to accept me as a supernumerary—cook’s mate, or anything in the rough-and-ready line. I’m ready to ship in any kind of craft.’
‘You don’t mean to say you would like to go with us, Gerald? We are bound for “a dissolute region, inhabited by Turks,” as your illustrious countryman expressed it. For Turks read blacks,—in their way just as bad.’
‘Pardon me, my dear fellow, for the apparent disrespect; but you don’t fancy people come out to this unfurnished territory of yours to amuse themselves? What else did I come for but to work and make money, do you suppose?’