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Expedition to Delagoa Bay A rencontre at Constantinople Morisot and the lion Game in the Low Country The Barber encampment Lion's attack by daylight Lions in the donga The lion's voice Ways of the lion The lion an eater of carrion Tyrer and the buffalo Veld fires A piece of bad luck The Low Country rivers Snakes Hyenas Louren Marques Funeral of Pat Foote Discovery of gold near Blyde River Anticipated affluence Disappointment
The meaning of this last was presently made clear to Old Bob Wainwright, whose triumph was of but short duration, for lo! beneath his window, the second part of the procession suddenly halted, and there in the middle of the Upton folk, stood his rival, Martin Tyrer!
Him an' Martin Tyrer, of Little Upton, is mich of an age, an' they'n walked same number of times they're a bit jealous one o' th' t'other an' our Gaffer reckons if he bides awhoam, owd Martin 'ull be castin' up at him, an' sayin' he's beat him." "There'll be no Club meeting for Tyrer, either, to-morrow," Doctor Craddock said; "he's laid up with a bad attack of bronchitis."
"Why not?" growled feyther from his big chair in the corner. Mrs. Wainwright positively gasped. "Gaffer, thou'll noan think o' sich a thing thou as couldn't so mich as walk on Tuesday! I'm sure thou needn't be puttin' thysel' out for Martin Tyrer!" "I'm goin' as how 'tis," repeated Bob gloomily; he had been very gloomy all these days.
So when Pyott, the managing editor, was called up on the wire by Obed Tyrer, the President of the First National Trust, the call from that quarter carried with it no responsive curiosity. "Can you come up here right away?" demanded the banker, in a voice of that coerced tranquillity into which the trained mind translates itself when face to face with undue excitement. "No; I can't!
"It mak's me go all of a shake," the good woman added. "Eh, I cannot tell ye! It seems onnatural-like. Yer Feyther's noan like 'issel'. To think of his takkin' on that gate about owd Martin Tyrer; mony a one 'ud be fain enough as he were out o' the road!" Meanwhile Robert himself certainly did not say much, as the neighbours observed; in fact, he said nothing at all.
It certainly did not seem to come amiss to Robert, who grew quite jovial as he scraped the basin, and commiserated "owd Martin Tyrer, yon," with genuine sympathy. "Poor owd lad! To think of his being laid up just when Club Day cooms! Eh, he will be takken to. Ye mind how he allus got agate o' boastin' about bein' th' owdest member o' th' Club? an' he nobbut seventy!
I am glad that you at least have had more sense, Wainwright" turning with a smile to Bob. "I sh'd ha' gone if I could ha' getten foot to th' ground," returned Bob, glowering at him. "Well, well, luckily for you you couldn't, though it might not have been quite so serious with you. But Tyrer was very ill indeed when he went, and now naturally he is very much worse."
Much enveloped, indeed, in wraps and comforters, rather pale as to complexion, very hoarse as to voice, but nevertheless no other than Martin Tyrer himself. Bob's face fell, and he stared vacantly forth without attempting to move. "Well," cried Tyrer huskily, but triumphantly, "thou'rt theer, art thou, owd brid?
In an instant the buffalo picked him up on one of its horns, flung him into the air and rushed away. The result to poor Tyrer was a terrible injury one which I do not care to describe. Some weeks later the injured man was carried past our camp on a litter. He was afterwards conveyed to Natal, and thence to Europe, where a skilful operation set him right. In 1889 I went to Johannesburg.
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