They sat and smoked and drank whisky and water, and I stood by the fire also smoking and looking at them.
At last I spoke. ‘Old friends,’ I said, ‘how long is it since we got back from Kukuanaland?’
‘Three years,’ said Good. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I ask because I think that I have had a long enough spell of civilization. I am going back to the veldt.’
Sir Henry laid his head back in his arm-chair and laughed one of his deep laughs. ‘How very odd,’ he said, ‘eh, Good?’
Good beamed at me mysteriously through his eyeglass and murmured, ‘Yes, odd — very odd.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ said I, looking from one to the other, for I dislike mysteries.
‘Don’t you, old fellow?’ said Sir Henry; ‘then I will explain. As Good and I were walking up here we had a talk.’
‘If Good was there you probably did,’ I put in sarcastically, for Good is a great hand at talking. ‘And what may it have been about?’
‘What do you think?’ asked Sir Henry.
I shook my head. It was not likely that I should know what Good might be talking about. He talks about so many things.
‘Well, it was about a little plan that I have formed — namely, that if you were willing we should pack up our traps and go off to Africa on another expedition.’
I fairly jumped at his words. ‘You don’t say so!’ I said.
‘Yes I do, though, and so does Good; don’t you, Good?’
‘Rather,’ said that gentleman.
‘Listen, old fellow,’ went on Sir Henry, with considerable animation of manner. ‘I’m tired of it too, dead-tired of doing nothing more except play the squire in a country that is sick of squires. For a year or more I have been getting as restless as an old elephant who scents danger. I am always dreaming of Kukuanaland and Gagool and King Solomon’s Mines. I can assure you I have become the victim of an almost unaccountable craving. I am sick of shooting pheasants and partridges, and want to have a go at some large game again. There, you know the feeling — when one has once tasted brandy and water, milk becomes insipid to the palate. That year we spent together up in Kukuanaland seems to me worth all the other years of my life put together. I dare say that I am a fool for my pains, but I can’t help it; I long to go, and, what is more, I mean to go.’ He paused, and then went on again. ‘And, after all, why should I not go? I have no wife or parent, no chick or child to keep me. If anything happens to me the baronetcy will go to my brother George and his boy, as it would ultimately do in any case. I am of no importance to any one.’
‘Ah!’ I said, ‘I thought you would come to that sooner or later. And now, Good, what is your reason for wanting to trek; have you got one?’
‘I have,’ said Good, solemnly. ‘I never do anything without a reason; and it isn’t a lady — at least, if it is, it’s several.’
I looked at him again. Good is so overpoweringly frivolous. ‘What is it?’ I said.
‘Well, if you really want to know, though I’d rather not speak of a delicate and strictly personal matter, I’ll tell you: I’m getting too fat.’
‘Shut up, Good!’ said Sir Henry. ‘And now, Quatermain, tell us, where do you propose going to?’
I lit my pipe, which had gone out, before answering.
‘Have you people ever heard of Mt Kenia?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know the place,’ said Good.
‘Did you ever hear of the Island of Lamu?’ I asked again.
‘No. Stop, though — isn’t it a place about 300 miles north of Zanzibar?’
‘Yes. Now listen. What I have to propose is this. That we go to Lamu and thence make our way about 250 miles inland to Mt Kenia; from Mt Kenia on inland to Mt Lekakisera, another 200 miles, or thereabouts, beyond which no white man has to the best of my belief ever been; and then, if we get so far, right on into the unknown interior. What do you say to that, my hearties?’