Part 8 (1/2)

”d.i.c.k, don't be silly. How do you do, Mr Driffield,” greeting the Native Commissioner. ”We were talking about Mr Lamont, and what they say about him. Clare says she doesn't believe a word of it, and I was saying you knew more about it than I do, d.i.c.k.”

”Do you mean the breeze at Foster's?”

”Yes.”

”Well, he did climb down. There's no doubt about it. And the funny part of it is, that with the gloves on there's hardly a man anywhere in these parts who can touch him.”

”There you are, Lucy,” cried Clare triumphantly. ”Didn't I tell you it was because he was more than the other's match?”

”Well, it hadn't got a look that way at the time, and that was what struck everybody who saw it. Certainly it struck me,” replied Fullerton. ”But the next time you girls start taking away your neighbours' characters, don't do it at the top of your voices with window and door wide open. We could hear you all down the road.

Couldn't we, Driffield?”

”Mr Driffield sets a higher value on his immortal soul than you do on yours, d.i.c.k,” retorted Mrs Fullerton loftily. ”Consequently he isn't going to back you in your--ahem!--unveracity.”

”No. But he's dying of thirst, Lucy. So am I.”

She laughed, and took the hint. Then as the two men put down their gla.s.ses, Fullerton went on--

”Talking of the gloves--that reminds me of another time when Lamont climbed down. That time he put on the gloves with Voss. It was a beautiful spar, and really worth seeing. Then, just as the fun was at its height, Lamont suddenly turned quite white--as white as such a swarthy beggar can turn, that is--and chucked up the sponge then and there.”

”Yes. I remember that. It looked rum certainly--but all the same I'll maintain that Lamont's no coward. He showed no sign of it in the war of '93 anyway. If anything rather the reverse.”

”Ah!” exclaimed Clare significantly.

”May have lost his nerve since,” said her brother-in-law, also significantly.

”Well, I like Lamont,” said Driffield decidedly.

”I don't,” said Fullerton, equally so.

”Mind you, he's a chap who wants knowing a bit,” went on the Native Commissioner. ”Then he's all right.”

”Is he coming to the race meeting, Mr Driffield?” said Clare.

”Yes. He didn't intend to, though, until I gave him your message, Miss Vidal. We pointed out to him that he couldn't stop away after that.”

”Message! But I sent him no message.”

”Oh, Miss Vidal! Come now--think again.”

”Really, Mr Driffield, I ought to be very angry with you for twisting my words like that,” laughed Clare. ”But--you mean well, so let it pa.s.s. You are forgiven.”

”Talking of Lamont,” struck in Fullerton, who had a wearisome way of harking back to a subject long after everybody else had done with it, ”there's a yarn going about that he had to leave his own neighbourhood in England for showing the white feather. And it looks like it, remembering what a close Johnny he is about himself.”

Driffield looked up quickly.

”I believe I know who put that yarn about,” he said. ”Wasn't it Ancram--that new man who's putting up at Foster's?”

”Most likely,” said Fullerton. ”I never heard it myself till a day or two ago.”

”Why, what a sweep the fellow must be,” declared Driffield. ”Lamont has been putting him up since Peters picked him up in the mopani veldt, nearly dead with thirst. Saved his life, in fact. I know it's Ancram, because he pitched me the same yarn--of course 'in strict confidence.'