"But we are, old chap. Better and more brotherly than ever. I never knew till now how brave, and true, and manly--Ha! he's gone," sighed Emson sadly; for Dyke had made a sudden bound, and dashed out of the place, keeping away for fully half an hour, before he thrust in his head once more. "Ah, there you are," said Emson. "Come and sit down. I want to speak to you." "Look here, Joe," cried Dyke. "I'm baas now, and I shall do as I like. Are you going to talk any more of that nonsense? I am going if you are." "I shall not talk nonsense. I only said--" "You stop, sir. Don't you get only saiding again, for I won't have it. It's weak, and sickly, and sentimental. Who wants to be told that he helped his brother when he was ill? Such rot! Why, wouldn't you have fed me and washed my face if I'd grown as stupid and weak as you? There, shake hands. I'll forgive you this time; but if ever-- Hooray-y-y-y! He's getting some muscle in his arm again. You can feel him grip! Why, a fortnight ago it was like shaking hands with a dead chicken. I say, Joe, old man, you are heaps better." "Yes, I'm getting better. I feel as if I shall live now." "Live? Now there's a jolly old stupid. Just as if you were ever going to feel anything else. Look here, Joe: I shall have to make an alteration. I've been spoiling you, giving you too many good things. And to begin with, I think I'll cut your hair." "Isn't it short enough?" said Emson rather piteously, as he feebly raised his hand to his temples. "Yes, there: it looks nice and fashionable. But all down at the back it's like Breezy's mane." "Then you shall cut it, Dyke." "Ah-h-h!" "Well then, young un. But how is poor Breezy?" "Getting wild for want of riding. I went toward her yesterday, and she began dancing a _pas-de-deux_-legs on her fore-hoofs, and sparred at the sky with her hind. Wait a bit, and you and I'll take some of the steam out of her and Longshanks. We'll hunt out no end of ostriches' nests in the farther-off part of the veldt. Here, what are you shaking your jolly old head for? It's been quite shaky enough, hasn't it?" "I was thinking of the ostrich-farming, little un," said Emson sadly. "No, my lad, no more time wasted over that. Two hundred years hence they may have got a more manageable strain of domesticated birds that will live well in confinement. We've had our try, and failed." "Bah! Not half tried. I haven't. No, Joe, we won't give up. We'll do it yet. Why, it was that black scoundrel Jack who caused half the mischief. Oh, Joe, if I could only have caught him when he was knocking those poor young birds on the head, and had my gun with me." "What! would you have shot at him, young un?" "If I'd had small shot in one of the barrels. They'd have just gone through, and peppered his hide nicely. I say, Joe, his clothes wouldn't have stopped the shot corns." "No," said Emson, smiling; "his clothes wouldn't have stopped them."