The answering voice was the voice of the man of the shanty. It sounded
very rough and uncultured after the dandified drawl it followed, but it
sounded manlier for the contrast, too.

'He's a queer fellow,' said the first speaker; 'but this is the queerest
trick I've known him play. Tell me, is he--is he drinking at all?'

'No,' the other answered. 'He's not drinking. The first day he was here
he promised to put a load of shot into me if ever I gave him liquor.'

'Did he really? That's Paul all over. Oh, this the tent? Nobody here,
apparently. Well, I must wait. I have a book with me, and I must spend
four-and-twenty hours here in any case. Good-afternoon. Thank you.'

The listener was within twenty yards, but invisible beyond the crowded
undergrowth. The new arrival was perfectly attired, and handsome, in
a supercilious, brainless way. He wore a Norfolk Jacket and
knickerbockers, and his tanned boots were polished till they shone like
glass. For a while he poked about the tent and its neighbourhood, and,
having satisfied his curiosity, drew out a cigar-case from one pocket, a
silver matchbox from another, and a paper-clad novel from a third. Then
he disposed himself so as to command a view of the landscape, and began
to smoke and read.

He had occupied himself in this way for perhaps half an hour, when a
sudden voice hailed him, and startled him so that he dropped his book.

'Hillo, you there! Come here!'

'Oh,'he said, 'is that you, Paul, old fellow? Where are you?'

'Here,' said the voice ungraciously.

The latest arrival made his way in the direction indicated, but though
the voice had sounded not more than a score of yards away, he had to
call out twice or thrice, and wait for an answer. The brush was dense
and tangled, and he could have lost himself for a lifetime in it.

'Oh, there you are, Paul! Upon my word, I shouldn't have known you.'

'I heard you say you had a letter for me. I'd a good deal rather not
have seen you, but since you are here you may as well discharge your
commission, and when you've done that you can go.'

'I've got a letter for you, Paul. It's from poor dear Madge, and I'm
bound to say that I think she's beastly ill-used, and very unfortunate.'

'Doubly unfortunate,' said the camper-out--'unfortunate in a brute of a
husband and a cad of a brother. Give me the letter.'

'Here it is, Paul. You may think what you like about me, of course, but
I have travelled something like seven