Harley Greenoak's Charge

“Hallo, dad!” now sang out Dick, as they all met at the rendezvous. “Has Greenoak been ‘wiping your eye,’ or is it t’other way on?”

“No, certainly not the other way on, Dick,” was the answer. “Greenoak’s a record. But – hasn’t Hazel come yet?”

“N-no. Wait though – oh – yes. There she is. I hear wheels.”

A minute later and a neat dog-cart drove up, halting at a gate on the further side of the field. Hazel had alighted before Dick could get there, and as the pair returned together, laughing and talking, the two older men watched them, each with his own particular form of satisfaction at his heart.

“What a couple they make,” said Greenoak, more to himself than to the other. But it was overheard and heartily seconded.

Hazel was looking lovely in her fresh, plain, summer costume, which set off her dark, piquante beauty to perfection.

“Good sport?” she cried merrily. “Ah, yes, rather,” as her eyes fell upon the rows of “little brown birds” laid out upon the grass with a few hares and a rabbit or two. Then, still laughing and talking, she set to work, aided by Dick, to extract and lay out the contents of the hampers, and soon there was popping of champagne corks, and the glasses creamed with their fizzing contents, and all fell to with a good appetite.

“There’s something very restful about this English scenery,” remarked Greenoak, gazing dreamily out over the rich meadowland and soft, towering foliage, to where, away in the distance, the gables and chimneys of the Hall were irregularly glimpsed.

“Yes, and to-day might almost be an African day,” said Dick. “It’s so still and lovely, and cloudless.”

“Oh, talking of Africa,” cried Hazel, “I’ve just got a lot of news – mail letters – came soon after you had started. Dick – Mr Greenoak – what do you think? Elsie is going to be married!”

“No!” shouted Dick; and he threw back his head and roared. “Oh, that’s good. Who to?”

“I don’t remember the man, but he was one of the party who came to our rescue that night. He’s got a farm in the Chalumna district.”

“He didn’t see the play she made with that axe,” laughed Dick. “That might have scared him off – eh?”

“Perhaps that constituted the attraction, Dick,” said Sir Anson. “Useful sort of wife to have, you know, in such a troublesome neighbourhood.”

“She says that now her ‘bairn’ has left her – that’s me,” went on Hazel – “she might as well look out for herself. And so – she did.”

“What a howling joke!” cried Dick. “Good old Elsie! We’ll ship her out no end of a tea-service – and things – eh, dad? What other news, dear?”

“The Commandant has resigned.”

“Pity, fine old boy the Commandant. Why did he chuck?”

“He couldn’t pull with the present Government. They hampered him too much.”

“Beastly shame! They don’t know a good man when they’ve got him. Who succeeds him – Chambers?”

“No, they’ve put in another man. Mr Ladell has been promoted Inspector. Oh – and that man who helped you in that absurdly foolhardy adventure, Dick – Sketchley – has been made a sergeant. That’s all the F.A.M. Police news.”

“That part’s good, anyway. What about the Commandant? Hasn’t he got anything better?”

“There’s some talk of giving him Basutoland.”

“Oh, well, that’s not so bad. The fine old chap’ll have lots of time to hunt butterflies and lizards up there.”

“They say there’s likely to be trouble up there,” went on Hazel. “Now, Mr Greenoak, what will South Africa do without its ‘providence’?”

“Yes. I knew that,” said Greenoak, ignoring the last question. “The Commandant and I have often talked it over as more than a possibility.”

“Then you’ll be there, old chap,” cried Dick. “Oh, for certain you’ll be there.”

“Maybe. I’m thinking of returning soon.”

“Not until you’ve had some pheasant shooting, Greenoak,” said Sir Anson. “I swear you shan’t go from here till you’ve had some pheasant shooting, and that won’t be just yet. So you’re anchored for the present, you see. Now,” he went on, “fill the glasses. I’m going to propose a toast. Here it is. ‘All our good friends across the water, coupled with the name of Harley Greenoak.’”

The latter looked, if he could look such a thing, a trifle nervous.

“I can’t make a speech, Sir Anson,” he said, when they had drunk it. “Well, since I took charge of Dick there, I discovered more than once the truth of what you told me at the time. He certainly has an amazing aptitude for getting into holes, but then he manages to get himself out again.” (“Or you do it for him, old chap,” interrupted Dick.) “Well, then, as you have coupled your toast with the name of Harley Greenoak, I reply by proposing another toast, and that is ‘Harley Greenoak’s Charge.’”

“Here, Dick,” said Sir Anson, “open another bottle or so, and give the men a brimming bumper apiece. They must drink this toast too. I forgot in the other case, but they can drink Greenoak’s health as a toast to itself afterwards.”

The keepers and watchers, who were eating their lunch under a tree a little way apart, were called up and duly supplied with the invigorating sparkle. Then the health was drunk with enthusiasm —

“Harley Greenoak’s Charge!”

The End