"You've come just in time to cheer me up, for I've been lonely since Hemming went into the bush," exclaimed the major.
"Hemming! Do you mean Herbert Hemming?" asked O'Rourke, eagerly.
"That's who I mean," replied the major, and pushed the dice-box toward him. O'Rourke made nothing better than a pair, and had to pay for thirteen drinks. If you crave a lime-squash of an afternoon, the above method is not always the cheapest way of acquiring it. As the dice-box went the rounds again, and the attention of the company returned to generalities, the newcomer asked more particulars of Hemming's whereabouts.
"He started into the bush more than a week ago, to find some new kind of adventure and study the interior, he said," explained the major, "but my own opinion is that he went to see old Tetson in his place up the Plado. Sly boy, Hemming! Whenever we spoke of that crazy Tetson, and his daughter, and his money, he pretended not to take any stock in them. But I'll eat my hat—and it's the only one I have—if he isn't there at this minute, flashing that precious gig-lamp of his at the young lady."
O'Rourke had read stories about this eccentric millionaire in the newspapers some years before.
"Hemming is safe, wherever he lands," he said. "He's a woman-hater."
A look of half-whimsical disgust flashed across the old man's perspiring face. He leaned close to O'Rourke.
"Bah—you make me sick," he cried, "with your silly commonplaces. Woman-hater—bah—any fool, any schoolboy can say that. Call a man an ice-riding pinapede, and you'll display the virtue of originality, at least. At first I suspected you of brains."
O'Rourke was embarrassed. How could he explain that, in using the term woman-hater, he had meant to suit his conversation to the intellect of his hearer. It was commonplace, without doubt, and meant nothing at all.
"Do you think, Mr. O'Rourke," continued the other, "that simply because I'm stranded in this hole, on my beam-ends (to use the language of our worthy table-mates), that my brain is past being offended? You are wrong, then, my boy, just as sure as my name is Farrington. Hemming would never have called a man a woman-hater. Why, here am I, sir, sitting as I have sat every day for years, getting drunk, and with never a word to a woman, white or black, for about as long as you have used a razor. But I don't hate women—-not I. I'd give my life, such as it is, any minute, for the first woman who would look at me without curling her lip—that is, the first well-bred white woman. Ask Hemming what he thinks, and he will tell you that, in spite of the men, women are still the finest creatures God ever invented. No doubt he seems indifferent now, but that's because he has loved some girl very much, and has been hurt by her."