And Mount Dunstan's laugh at the sound of it was echoed by another which came apparently from the bank rising from the road on the other side of the hedge, and accompanying the laugh was a good-natured nasal voice.
"She's caught on.

There's no mistake about that.

I guess it's time for you to hustle, Mr.Rob." Mount Dunstan laughed again.

Jem Salter had heard voices like it, and cheerful slang phrases of the same order in his ranch days.

On the other side of his park fence there was evidently sitting, through some odd chance, an American of the cheery, casual order, not sufficiently polished by travel to have lost his picturesque national characteristics.
Mount Dunstan put a hand on a broken panel of fence and leaped over into the road.
A bicycle was lying upon the roadside grass, and on the bank, looking as though he had been sheltering himself under the hedge from the rain, sat a young man in a cheap bicycling suit.