"Who owns all these goats?" said Selwyn, put in better spirits by the find.
Horrington blinked his eyes. "That is what nobody knows. They walk round a man's house, and break the way inside if there's a crust on the place; or get tangled in the dustbin just as a man is falling asleep. You can stand all day shouting for an owner, and not a soul on the lease turns an ear. But if you go mad and shoot one, every man and woman in the camp comes running up to claim it."
"You don't care for goats?" said Selwyn.
Mr. Horrington put the back of a hand across his drooping moustache. "They are charming animals for little girls to fondle in books; but you have to live with them to know them. Were I a well-to-do man I would keep two or three, and wander down of an evening to the paddock to sprinkle a little bread over them. But when you must wrestle a goat round a bail before you can have breakfast, the glamour wears. By gad! a man soon gets hot walking these mornings. Ah, here's the hotel. I hope you will take the dust out of your throat with me. It will help square our tobacco account." Mr. Horrington laughed a rusty laugh.
They passed through the open doorway of the hotel, turned right-handed, and went into the bar. It was cool indoors after the sun. The room was large and low, and full of the breaths of departed roysterers; and was empty except for a battered barmaid in curl papers who dusted behind the counter. Upon the floor were many signs of yesterday. Selwyn felt poorly inclined for refreshment. Mr. Horrington took off his hat and wiped his brow, bowing good morning to the barmaid, who smiled bitterly and came forward. He laid his stick along the counter, and leaning an elbow beside it, fell into a noble pose, the outcome of a lifetime's practice.
"What's it to be, Mr. Selwyn?"
"Anything, thanks; a whisky," said Selwyn, coming forward and smiling a charming good morning.
"That will do for me," Mr. Horrington agreed. "Two whiskys, please."
Mr. Horrington plunged a hand into his right trouser pocket. Afterwards he plunged a hand into his left pocket. Once more he tried the right pocket. He blinked his eyes. He took up the whisky bottle and poured himself out a stiff peg. He shook his head at a suggestion of dilution. He sipped the peg to taste its quality. He seemed about to add a little more, had not the barmaid put the bottle from harm's way. He watched paternally the pouring out of Selwyn's nobbler, and when it was set down ready, he said pleasantly:—
"I am afraid I have left every penny of loose cash behind. Wretched nuisance! Never remember doing that kind of thing before. I hope you won't object to settling this little matter now, and we can fix up between ourselves another day." Leaning over, he added in a heavy whisper: "They are not too agreeable here—don't care to run accounts."