John went out and strolled round the farm. It presented a different appearance: four or five new wooden huts, neatly thatched, erected for the accommodation of the visitors expected, stood near the bungalow. John was at present the only white man on the farm, Mr. Halliday having returned to Nairobi with the rest of the rescue-party to make some purchases, and Ferrier to meet his sister and get attention to his wounded thigh. The evening before, a messenger had come in advance, to announce that the visitors would arrive next day: Mr. Halliday was returning with Mrs. Burtenshaw, her family, and the Ferriers. Said Mohammed was determined "to do credit to the establishment," as he put it; he would show the guests "that the resources of civilization were not dead letter in African wilds." As the day drew on, John became restless. He had the floor of the bungalow scrubbed twice; set Lulu to scour the pans in the dairy for the third time; and got Coja to cut his hair. He was in some agitation of mind as to what he should wear. He looked out a white shirt, collar, and tie, and a suit of clothes he had not worn since he left England. His unaccustomed fingers struggled with his collar-stud until he was in despair, and when he had knotted his tie he found that he had no clips, and the wretched thing threatened to ride up to his chin. He was standing at the door of the bungalow, thus arrayed, and feeling ridiculously got up, when he saw Ferrier galloping up on a pony. "Hallo, old chap!" shouted his friend. "The others are about half-an-hour behind. Thought I would ride ahead and prepare you. What have you been doing to yourself?" "What do you mean?" "Well, don’t mind what I say, but you look a bit of a guy, you know. Your coat’s too tight, and your waistcoat too short: are they the things you wore at school? Your tie’s wriggling round to your ear; and your trousers display a good deal of ankle--d’you know that you’ve got on odd socks?" "Hang it all, Charley, what shall I do? I’ve got nothing else but khaki and drill, and I can’t show up in those." "Don’t see why. The women won’t expect to find Bond Street fashions here, and if you’ll take my tip you’ll tumble out of those things as soon as possible, and rig up in your usual toggery." "You really think they won’t mind?" "Of course not. Hurry up; you’ll just have time." John dashed off with a feeling of unutterable relief. He pitched his tie and collar into a corner, crushed his suit into a drawer, regardless of creases, and in ten minutes reappeared in flannel shirt and clean white drill, feeling at ease. In less than half-an-hour the party arrived, six in all, Mr. Gillespie having accompanied them. Their safari was still some miles in the rear. "How d’you do, John?" said the elder lady, as he helped her to dismount. "I am Mrs. Burtenshaw--still!" John felt himself blushing. "I know you as Cousin Sylvia, ma’am," he said.