an her proprietor, was looking a trifle red and puffy from the
effects of both, but Clare, in her fresh and cool attire and straw hat,
was as fresh and cool and smiling as though heat and dust did not exist.
She did not even want to put up a sunshade, that most abominable of
nuisances on the part of the sharer of your driving seat, what time your
way lies over none too smooth roads, and through an occasional stony and
slippery drift. And they chatted and joked merrily and light-heartedly
as they sped over the sunlit landscape with its variety of towering
granite kopje near by and hazy line of distant ridge far away against
the deep blue of heaven's vault, what time both Fullertons snored
placidly behind, one discordantly, the other lightly.

"Our good Fullerton is guilty of a snore fit to give a dead man the
nightmare, isn't he, Miss Vidal?" said Wyndham presently, turning his
head to look at the offender. That estimable engineer lay back in his
corner in an uncomfortable attitude, his mouth wide open and emitting
sounds that baffle description. "I really think we ought to wake him."

Clare laughed. "No, no. Let him alone. He's quite happy now."

"He reminds me of a man who was one of a shooting party I was with up on
the Inyati. There were several of us, and we slept in a _scherm_, very
snug and jolly we were too. But the moonlight nights were heavenly, and
I was restless and couldn't sleep--so I used to get up and light my
pipe, and stroll about outside, and admire the view, and all that sort
of thing. Well, after a couple of nights or so the chap who slept next
me objected--swore I was an outrageously restless beggar and disturbed
him half a dozen times a night, and wouldn't I go and sleep on the other
side of the _scherm_ in future? I put it to him how the demon could I
be anything but restless when I found myself turned in alongside of a
saw-mill in full blast--not even a respectable saw-mill either, and one
of regular habits, but one that started on a hard-grained slab and
buzzed through that, then struck a hard knot and bucked and kicked and
returned to the charge, and finally screamed through it, and no sooner
had it resumed the even tenor of its way than a nail had to be
negotiated. Well, as for the cutting through of that nail, I give it
up. I suppose the infernal regions alone could produce such sounds of
soul-splitting stridency as those evolved by my next-door neighbour's
blowpipes when it got