“Good Heavens! Another row!” I said to myself. “What impossible people these are!”
For I had recognised an altercation, and I had recognised the voices. One was that of the Major’s nephew, and it was raised in fine old British imprecation. The other was that of a native, and was volubly expostulative—in its own tongue. Then I came in view of their owners, and heard at the same time another sound—that of a hard smack, followed by another. For background to the scene the fence and gate of a sheep-kraal.
The native was a youth, similar to those who had called at my store that afternoon. Unarmed he was no sort of match for the powerful and scientific onslaught of his chastiser. He had nimbly skipped out of harm’s way and was volubly pouring forth abuse and threats of vengeance.
“What on earth—Are you at it again, Sewin?” I sung out. “Great Scott, man, you’ll never keep a boy on the place at this rate! What’s the row this time?”
“Hallo Glanton! That you? Row? Only that when I tell this cheeky silly idiot to do anything he stands and grins and doesn’t do it. So I went for him.”
The tailing off of the remark was not quite suitable for publication, so I omit it.
“That all he did?” I said, rather shortly, for I was out of patience with this young fool.
“All? Isn’t that enough? Damn his cheek! What business has he to grin at me?”
“Well you wouldn’t have had him scowl, would you?”
“I’d have hammered him to pulp if he had.”