"Now look here, Charles Ferrier, you’re a very good sort, but I’m hanged if I stand that. If there’s any talk of pay, I ought to pay you for your services. Five weeks in charge while I was droving--name your figure. Rounding up strayed cattle; looking after the natives--how much that lot? You do far more in a day than any hired man, as I believe you call ’em in your part of the world." "Well, I like it, and I’ve nothing else to do; in fact, I’ve a great mind to settle about here myself, and I would, like a shot, if it weren’t for Hilda. I’m afraid it wouldn’t do to bring her among the lions, as your khansaman said. But here I am, learning all about it on the cheap, and with no responsibility." "Look here, we’ll leave it at that. I’m very glad of your company, to say nothing of your help, and as by the look of it that misguided father of mine has been hooked, and the widow must be rolling in money, I don’t suppose we shall see him back here. He’ll settle down in Park Lane, and die before his time of overfeeding. You stay on as long as you like, and if you’re getting experience, I’m getting your services, so we’ll cry quits." So it was left. The two young fellows shared in the management of the farm. They found their time pretty fully occupied, and a portion of a letter which John wrote to his father a week or two later may be quoted as showing how affairs at the farm were progressing. The rains have stopped, and I’ve got all the planting done. I’m trying some radish and rhubarb this season; also carrots, which Mr. Gillespie told me are good for the cattle. By the way, that bull we called Moses because he’s fierce, is off his feed; I don’t know what’s wrong with him, and you might send me Barton’s book on common ailments. I don’t suppose you’ll find a copy in Geneva, or wherever you are now, but if you’re not too busy to send a card in London, I dare say I’ll get it when Moses is dead. "That’ll touch him up, Charley; he’ll think Moses would be all right if he were here." I bought a few fat-tailed sheep from old Sobersides (the chief of the neighbouring village) the other day. He got them, he says, from a party of Rendili who were driven south of the Waso Nyiro by the drought in their own country. I don’t suppose it’s true, for Coja tells me the Rendili live a big long way beyond the mountain, and we’ve seen nothing of them. Sobersides tells us, too, that a gang of Swahilis have established themselves somewhere north of Kenya, and are raiding the surrounding tribes. As they’ve got guns, I bet they’re that sweep Juma and his crew. That’s all we’ve heard of them since we licked them. Ferrier is still here; says he’s in loco parentis, and won’t leave me till you return to your duties. I wonder if you tell the widow’s children that you’re in loco parentis?