patch of great sunflowers found moisture
enough for their roots somewhere far below, and sent up their great
pithy stalks close to the house door, spread their rough leaves, and
imitated the sun's disk in their broad, round, yellow flowers. There
was an ugly euphorbia too, with its thorny, almost leafless branches and
brilliant scarlet flowers; while grotesque and hideous-looking, with its
great, flat, oblong, biscuit-shaped patches of juicy leaf, studded with
great thorns, a prickly pear or opuntia reared itself against the end
gable, warranted to stop every one who approached.

"It's no good," Dyke once said; "the place is a nasty old desert, and I
hate it, and I wish I'd never come. There's only six letters in Africa,
and half of them spell fry."

"And that's bad grammar and bad spelling," said his half-brother; "and
you're a discontented young cub."

"And you're another," said Dyke sourly. "Well, haven't we been fried or
grilled ever since we've been out here? and don't you say yourself that
it's all a failure, and that you've made a big mistake?"

"Yes, sometimes, when I'm very hot and tired, Dicky, my lad. We've
failed so far; but, look here, my brave and beautiful British boy."

"Look here, Joe; I wish you wouldn't be so jolly fond of chaffing and
teasing me," said Dyke angrily.

"Poor old fellow, then! Was um hot and tired and thirsty, then?" cried
his half-brother mockingly. "Take it coolly, Dicky."

"Don't call me Dicky," cried the boy passionately, as he kicked out both
legs.

"Vandyke Emson, Esquire, ostrich-farmer, then," said the other.

"Ostrich-farmer!" cried Dyke, in a tone full of disgust. "Ugh! I'm
sick of the silly-looking, lanky goblins. I wish their heads were
buried in the sand, and their bodies too."

"With their legs sticking straight up to make fences, eh, old man?" said
Joseph Emson, smiling behind his beard--a smile that would have been all
lost, if it had not been for a pleasant wrinkle or two about his frank
blue eyes.

"Well, they would be some good then," said Dyke, a little more amiably.
"These wire fences are always breaking down and going off _spang_, and
twisting round your legs. Oh, I do wish I was back at home."

"Amongst the rain and clouds and fog, so that you could be always
playing cricket in summer, and football in winter, and skating when
there was ice."

"Don't you sneer at the fog, Joe," retorted Dyke. "I wish I could see a
good thick one now."