"Pooh, man, don't be so easily put off! I suppose that's what most fellows think at first, though."

Gerard soon dropped off to sleep. Tired as he was, however, and with every disposition to adapt himself to circ.u.mstances, in less than two hours he awoke. The heat of the room, notwithstanding that the window was wide open, was suffocating, and, added to this, he awoke with the sensation of being devoured alive. A subdued groan from his companion, who was tossing restlessly upon his bed, caught his ear.

"Hallo, Harry! what's the row?"

"Ugh! I was wondering how long you would stand it. I'm being eaten-- dragged out of bed. These infernal mosquitoes!"

That was at the bottom of the mischief, then. In the silence following on his companion's words, Gerard could hear the shrill trumpet of more than one of these nocturnal pests, winging his way aloft, to lie hidden in some secure corner of the ceiling until quiet should once more prevail, and he could again descend to browse upon his victims to his heart's content and the repletion of his skin.

"Oh, that's it, is it!" cried Gerard, striking a light with alacrity.

"By Jove, I'm bitten all over!" he went on, examining his hands and chest, and also becoming aware of the existence of several lumps upon his head and face.

"So am I," groaned Harry. "I haven't been able to s.n.a.t.c.h a wink of sleep this blessed night. Just look at the brutes!"

In the candlelight, some half-dozen of the tiny venomous insects could be seen floating in the air. A good many more were on the ceiling.

"Why, hang it, I always thought they gave one mosquito curtains in countries like this!" said Gerard, "and--why, Harry, you've got one.

How is it we didn't spot the thing before?"

"Have I? Where? What--this thing?"

"Yes, of course. Let's see what it's good for."

There was a fold of gauze netting at the head of the bedstead. This, on further investigation, was found to be large enough to protect the head and shoulders of the sleeper, and Gerard duly arranged it as best he knew how for the benefit of his companion.

"There you are, old chap. Now you'll be all right--only it's rather like shutting the stable door after the horse is stolen. I'll tuck my head under the sheet, and dodge them that way."

He returned to his shakedown, and put out the light. He was just dozing off, when another exclamation on the part of his companion aroused him.

"What's the row now?" he cried.

"Row? I should think there was. Just listen to that fellow next door 'sawing planks.'"

A shrill, strident, rasping snore came through the part.i.tion, which was constructed of very thin boarding. A most exasperating snore withal, and one calculated to drive a light sleeper to the verge of frenzy.

"Well, I'm afraid we can do nothing against that," said Gerard, ruefully.

Nor could they. And what with the stifling heat, the mosquito bites, and that maddening snore, our two young friends had a very bad night of it indeed, and but little sleep fell to their lot. Harry Maitland, f.a.gged and disgusted, was not slow to air his grievances to the full the next morning on meeting Wayne. But that unfeeling individual only laughed.

"So!" he said. "Yes, it's always that way. Mosquitoes are always death on a new man out from home. They don't think much of us old stagers when they can get fresh blood. But never mind. You'll soon get used to that."

Which was all the sympathy they met with.

CHAPTER THREE.

A FRIEND.

"Well, youngsters! And what have you been doing with yourselves since you got ash.o.r.e?"

Thus a jolly voice behind them, and a hand fell upon the shoulder of each. They were returning from a couple of hours' row among the bushy islets of the bay, and were strolling down the main street of Durban, stopping here and there to look at a shop window crammed with quaint curios and Kafir truck, or displaying photographic views representing phases of native life and scenes up-country.

"Mr Kingsland!" cried Gerard, turning with a lively sense of satisfaction. "Why, I thought you were going straight through."

"So I was--so I was. But I ran against some fellows directly I landed, and they wouldn't hear of my leaving Durban yesterday--or to-day either.

And now you'd better come along with me to the Royal and have some lunch."

This invitation met with cordial acceptation. Both were beginning to feel rather out of it, knowing n.o.body in the place. The breezy geniality of their shipboard acquaintance did not strike Harry as officious or obtrusive now.

"We shall be delighted," he said. "The fact is, we are none too comfortable where we are. I, for one, don't care how soon we get out of it."

"Eh--what! Why, where are you putting up?"

"At a precious rough-and-tumble sort of shop," answered Harry resentfully, the recollection of the mosquitoes still fresh and green.

"A fellow named Wayne, who keeps a sort of boarding-house for navvies--"

"Wayne! At Wayne's, are you? I know Wayne well. Smartish fellow he used to be--made a little money at transport-riding [Note 1], but couldn't stick to it--couldn't stick to anything--not enough staying power in him," went on Mr Kingsland, with that open-hearted garrulity on the subject of his neighbours' affairs which characterises a certain stamp of colonial. "And you find it roughish, eh?"

"I should rather think we did," rejoined Harry. And then he proceeded to give a feeling account of his experiences, especially with regard to the mosquitoes.

Mr Kingsland laughed heartily.

"You'll soon get used to that," he said. "Here we are. And now for tiffin."

They entered the hotel just as the gong sounded. Several men lounged about the hall in cane chairs. To most of these their entertainer nodded, speaking a few words to some. Then he piloted them to a table in a cool corner.

"And now what do you propose doing?" said Mr Kingsland, when lunch was well in progress. "Stay on here and look around for a few days, or get away further up-country?"

"The last for choice," answered Gerard. "We have had about enough of Durban already. You see, we don't know a soul here," he hurried to explain, lest the other should think him fastidious or fault-finding; for there is no point on which the colonial mind is so touchy as on that of the merits or demerits of its own particular town or section.

"And feel rather 'out of it.' Quite so," rejoined Mr Kingsland. "But didn't you say, Ridgeley, you had friends in Maritzburg to whom you were consigned?"

"Not that exactly. I have a distant relative up there--Anstey his name is--perhaps you know him? I believe he manages a store, or something of that kind."

"N-no, I can't say I do. There's Anstey out Greytown way; but he's a farmer."

"Oh no, that's not the man. This one hasn't got an ounce of farming in him. The fact is, I don't know him. My mother--my people, that is-- thought he might be able to put me into the way of doing something, so I have got a letter to him."

"And what is the 'something' you are thinking of doing, Ridgeley?" said Mr Kingsland, fixing his eyes upon Gerard's face.

"I'm afraid I must take whatever turns up--think myself lucky to get it.

But, for choice, I should like above all things to get on a farm."

"H'm! Most young fellows who come out here are keen on that at first.

They don't all stick to it, though--not they. They begin by fancying it's going to be no end of a jolly life, all riding about and shooting.

But it isn't, not by any means. It's regular downright hard work, and a rough life at that."

"That I'm quite prepared for," said Gerard. "I only wish I could get the chance."