Part 17 (2/2)

”What, all the way?” said Claverton. ”I thought we were going to choke him off at Van Rooyen's, where we picked him up.”

”No such luck. He's going back to Seringa Vale; at least, so Mr Armitage says.”

”Oh, that may be only Jack's chaff; but--”

He checked himself as something seemed to strike him. ”Bos.h.!.+” he thought, ”Jack only sees that she rather hates the bullet-headed fool, and is trying to take a rise out of her.” Then aloud: ”That fellow Jack is a confounded nuisance at times, and yet on the whole I think he's an acquisition.”

”Oh, yes; he makes one laugh so often, which is a great thing. Just look at him now, for instance.”

Both turned to watch the interesting object of their discussion, who was evidently about to keep up his reputation--for Allen, whose decrepit steed had gone dead lame, and was incapable of carrying him, had received the loan of the volatile Waschbank, which sprightly quadruped was evidently rather more than a handful to him. Armitage perceiving this, delighted to get behind and by dint of sundry clicking noises, softly articulated, to induce the already excited animal to plunge and shake his head frantically, and make violent attempts at bolting, to the dire discomfiture of the rider, who clutched the bridle spasmodically with both hands, holding on, as it were, ”by the skin of his teeth.”

”It's rather a shame,” mused Claverton, as they contemplated the performance. ”Why can't he let the poor devil alone, even for half an hour? Allen isn't a bad fellow, although he's an a.s.s in some things.”

”Look out, Allen. Hold on, pay out your rein, or, by George, he'll have you off!” Armitage was saying, while Jeffreys rode behind sardonically enjoying the other's discomfiture. And the warning came none too soon, for Waschbank, finding the increased pressure of the rather sharp curb, which his rider was bearing on more and more heavily, defied his frantic attempts at a bolt, sought to vary the entertainment by suddenly rearing. Then as Allen, in a panic, quickly slackened the reins, grasping at the same time a bit of the mane, away went Waschbank with a rush and a snort, his rider still clinging on like grim Death. But this was not to last long, for one of the said rider's long spurs digging violently into his flank, the animal put down his head, and springing into the air, all four feet at once, promptly shot the hapless Allen into s.p.a.ce and a thorn-bush which grew handy. Then after vainly endeavouring in the course of half-a-dozen more ”bucks” to rid himself of his saddle, the amiable brute gave a loud snort and started for home at a hand gallop.

”Hallo, Allen!” cried Claverton, dismounting to haul him out of the bush. ”Jump up, old man. Not hurt, are you? That's it?” as the other staggered to his feet groaning and wincing; as well he might, for his ”continuations” were stuck as full of thorns as a well-stocked pincus.h.i.+on is of pins. ”Better thorns than broken bones, you know.

What's to be done? At the rate that brute's going he'll be within a hundred yards of Buffel's Kloof by now, or we might have exchanged.

Sticks is as quiet as a village scold on board the ducking-stool.”

”Plenty more thorn-bushes,” sneered Jeffreys, in a load aside. ”But it's a safe enough offer now that Waschbank's gone home.”

”I say,” began Jack, in mock concern, ”what are we to do? Toss up who shall pursue the absconding Waschbank with a pinch of salt, eh?”

”Humbugging apart, though,” said Claverton, ”we are only about a mile from Van Rooyen's; the best thing for Allen to do will be to walk on there, and the Dutchman will be able to rig him out with some sort of a mount to take him home.”

This was arranged, and they rode on.

”I think Jack carries his jokes too far sometimes,” remarked Claverton.

”He'll find his level some day.”

They soon arrived at Van Rooyen's, and the Dutchman, having enjoyed a hearty laugh over poor Allen's mishap, sent for the steadiest old roadster in his paddock and mounted the dethroned hero thereon; and after resting an hour, which somehow had nearly dragged itself out to two, the party were in the saddle again, bound for their respective homes. But it is the Seringa Vale quartette--for the obnoxious Jeffreys had, after all, left them at Van Rooyen's--whom we shall now follow. It was late when they left Buffel's Kloof, and now, as they rode over the rising ground which shut the Dutchman's farmstead from sight behind, the very short gloaming of a South African day was already drawing in.

”I don't know how it is; as a rule I enjoy a ride at night,” said Ethel, ”but this evening I can't help wis.h.i.+ng we were safe at home, I feel quite low and nervous;” and she s.h.i.+vered.

”I know how it is. You've caught cold,” replied her companion. ”It's a particularly warm evening, and you're s.h.i.+vering as if it were mid-winter. Here--wait a bit--and put this on.”

In a trice he had unstrapped an ample waterproof cloak from his saddle, and, dismounting, wrapped it twice round her, tightly and securely, yet so as not to impede the management of the reins.

”Thanks. No, I wasn't cold--it's very absurd--but I feel as if something dreadful was going to happen. A kind of presentiment.”

”Nonsense, child. You have been catching cold; but we shall both be catching it hot soon for being so outrageously late. Come along, here's a nice level bit, and those two are a good mile ahead.”

”Yes, it's too absurd of me,” she said, as they cantered on; ”but--I felt a drop of rain.”

They looked up. Sure enough the sky had suddenly clouded over, and several large raindrops splashed down upon the road.

”We are in for a shower, I'm afraid,” said Claverton. ”Nothing for it but leg-bail. However, that ancient garment will keep you as dry as a chip, unless it has suddenly performed the feat in physiology which Holy Writ a.s.sociates with the Ethiopian.”

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