"Hullo, I say, Cap, wake up, old boy," shouted my new friend. "Quite
time to go home, don't you know. That's right--up you come. Now let
me introduce you to Mr. Lamb. I'm sure he's an acquisition. What, off
again! Damn it, old Cloud, that's unreasonable, to say the least of
it."
At length, after a great deal of shouting and shaking, he succeeded
in rousing his drunken companion, who staggered up and stared at me
in an imbecile manner.
"Now let me introduce you," said the other. "Mr. Lamb. My friend,
Captain Cloudesley Wriothesley. Bravo! Steady, old cock--now shake
hands."
The Captain said nothing, but took my hand, swaying forwards as if
about to embrace me. We then with considerable difficulty got him on
to his saddle and rode off together, keeping him between us to prevent
him from falling off. Half an hour's ride brought us to my host Mr.
Vincent Winchcombe's house. I had pictured to myself a charming little
homestead, buried in cool greenery and flowers, and filled with pleasant
memories of dear old England; I was, therefore, grievously disappointed
to find that his "home" was only a mean-looking _rancho,_ with a ditch
round it, protecting some ploughed or dug-up ground, on which not one
green thing appeared. Mr. Winchcombe explained, however, that he had not
yet had time to cultivate much. "Only vegetables and such things, don't
you know," he said.
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