Birdnesting.
“You’re a dissatisfied young dog, Dyke,” cried Joe Emson good-humouredly, as he smiled down from his high horse at his brother; “always grumbling.”
“I’m not,” cried Dyke indignantly.
“You are, boy. Just as if any one could be low-spirited when he is young and strong, out in this wide free place on such a lovely morning.”
“It’s all right enough now,” replied Dyke, “because it’s early and cool; but it is so horribly lonely.”
“Lonely! Why, I’m always with you,” cried Emson—“the best of company. Then you’ve Jack and Tanta Sal, and Duke, and Breezy, and all the ostriches for pets, and the oxen; while, if you want more company, there’s old Oom Schlagen out one way, and old Morgenstern out the other.”
“Ugh! Stupid old Boers!” cried Dyke.
“Well, they’re civil to you, and that’s more than Oom Schlagen is to me. It’s because you have got that Dutch name. I say, father meant you to be a painter, I’ll be bound, and here you are, an ostrich-farmer.”
“Oh yes, and we’re going to be very rich when the birds are all dead.”
“And they seem as if they meant to die, all of them,” said Emson sadly, as he rode along by his brother, each with his rifle across his saddle-bow. “I don’t seem to have got hold of the right way of managing them, Dyke: we must follow nature more by watching the habits of the wild ones. I have tried so hard, too.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Dyke merrily. “Who’s grumbling now!”
“That’s better, and more like yourself, old fellow,” said Emson, smiling down pleasantly. “That’s more like the light-hearted chap who promised to stick to and help me like a brother should. You hurt me, Dyke, when you turn so low-spirited and sulky. I’ve plenty of troubles, though I say little, over my venture here; and when I see you so down, it worries me more than I can say.”
They rode on over the open veldt that glorious morning in silence for some minutes, and Dyke looked down at his horse’s mane.
“It makes me feel that I have done wrong in bringing a bright, happy lad away from home and his studies to this wild solitary place. I ought to have known better, and that it was not natural for a boy like you to feel the hard stern determination to get on that I, ten years older, possessed. I ought to have known that, as soon as the novelty had passed away, you would begin to long for change. Father did warn me, but I said to him: ‘I’m a man, and he’s only a boy; but we’ve been together so much, and always been companions, Dyke and I can’t help getting on together.’ ”
“And we can’t,” cried the boy in a husky voice. “Don’t, please don’t, Joe, old chap; I can’t bear it. I’ve been a beast.”
“Oh, come, come,” cried Emson, leaning over to clap him on the shoulder; “I didn’t mean to upset you like that.”
“But I’m glad you have,” cried Dyke in half-suffocated tones. “I know well enough I have been a beast to you, Joe, and the more quiet and patient you’ve been with me, the worse I’ve got, till I quite hate myself.”
“Oh no, not so bad as that.”
“Yes,” cried Dyke excitedly, “it’s been worse; and all the while you’ve been the dear, good old chap to me; just the same as it always was when I was little, and grew tired and cross when we were out, and you took me up on your back and carried me miles and miles home.”
“Why, of course I did,” said Emson, smiling.
“There’s no of course in it. I was always petty and disagreeable, and ready to impose on your good-nature; but you never had an unkind word for me.”
“Well, you were such a little one, and I was always so big.”
“I can see it all, Joe, and it’s made me miserable many a time; but the kinder you’ve been, the worse it has made me. You and father always spoiled and petted me.”
“Not we. Only kind to you, because we liked you. I say, Dyke, what games we used to have! You see, I never had a brother till you came. There, it’s all right. Now then for a canter.”
“Not yet,” said Dyke. “I feel as if I could talk to you this morning.”
“But you have talked, and it’s all over now; so come along.”
“No,” cried Dyke firmly, and he caught his brother’s rein.
“I say, old chap, are you the boss here, or am I?”
“I am, this morning,” said the boy, looking up in his brother’s big manly face. “I want you to listen to me.”
“Well, go ahead then, and let’s get it over.”
“It’s been like this, Joe. I’ve got in a bad way of thinking lately. It’s all been so disappointing, and no matter what one did, nothing came right.”
“Yes, that’s true enough, old chap,” said Emson, rather drearily; “and we have tried precious hard.”
“You have, Joe, and I’ve been a regular sulky, disappointed sort of brute.”
“Coat been a bit rough, Dyke, old chap, eh? Out of sorts.”
“I suppose in my head; but, Joe, I am sorry—I can’t say it as I should like to, but I—I will try now.”
“Just as if I didn’t know. We’ve been chums so long, old man, ever since you first took to me when I was a big stupid fellow, all legs like a colt, and as ugly, and you were a pretty little golden-haired chap, always wanting to stick your soft chubby little fist in my big paw. There, it’s all right. Old times again, old un, and we’re going to do it yet, eh?”
“And you’ll forgive me, Joe?” said Dyke earnestly.
“Forgive you?” cried Emson, looking at his brother with his big pleasant manly face all in wrinkles. “Get along with you! What is there to forgive?”
“I will try now and help you, Joe; I will, indeed.”
“Of course you will, old chap,” cried Joe, a little huskily too; “and if you and I can’t win yet, in spite of the hot sun and the disease and the wicked ways of those jolly old stilt-stalkers, nobody can.”
“Yes, we will win, Joe,” cried Dyke enthusiastically.
“That’s your sort!” cried Emson. “We’ll have a good long try, and if the ostriches don’t pay, we’ll hunt, as, I know, we’ve got plenty of room out here: we’ll have an elephant farm instead, and grow ivory, and have a big warehouse for making potted elephant to send and sell at home for a breakfast appetiser. Who’s going to give up, eh? Now, then, what about this canter? The horses want a breather—they’re getting fidgety. I say, feel better now, old chap, don’t you?”
Dyke pinched his lips together and nodded shortly.
“So
