Weldon?" she said quietly.
"Captain Frazer spoke of you, a week ago. I have known him for
months; I know what, with him, stands for enthusiasm."
"I wish you might be a true prophet. I would honor you, even here in
your own garden. For the sake of Captain Frazer's regard, I would
give up most things," he replied, too low to be overheard by the
couple who were now chaffing each other above their cooling cups.
Later on, he wondered a little how far the apparent inconsequence of
her next question was the result of chance.
"What about Cooee?" she asked, in a voice as low as his own had
been.
He hesitated. Then he looked up at her steadily.
"Miss Mellen, I am sure I don't know," he answered gravely.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Beastly shame that the Boers hadn't buried themselves instead of
the guns!" Carew remarked, as he wrestled with a tough thong of
bully beef which yielded to his jaws much as an India-rubber eraser
might have done.
Without making any pretence of extracting nutriment from his own
ration, Weldon converted it into a missile and hurled it straight at
his companion.
"There's this difference," he returned pithily; "a gun is a good
enough fellow to deserve Christian burial.
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