"Cheer up, Tom--cheer up," said I. "No man ever knows what may be
awaiting him."
"Ill luck, ill luck, Jack," he answered. "I always was an unlucky dog.
Here have I been three years in this abominable country; and I see lads
fresh from England jingling the money in their pockets, while I am as
poor as when I landed. Ah, Jack, if you want to keep your head above
water, old friend, you must try your fortune away from me."
"Nonsense, Tom; you're down in your luck to-night. But hark! Here's some
one coming outside. Dick Wharton, by the tread; he'll rouse you, if any
man can."
Even as I spoke the door was flung open, and honest Dick Wharton, with
the water pouring from him, stepped in, his hearty red face looming
through the haze like a harvest-moon. He shook himself, and after
greeting us sat down by the fire to warm himself.
"Where away, Dick, on such a night as this?" said I. "You'll find the
rheumatism a worse foe than the Kaffirs, unless you keep more regular
hours."
Dick was looking unusually serious, almost frightened, one would say,
if one did not know the man.
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