He had untied the knots of the rag, and was eagerly counting forth its contents upon an old packing case. There they lay, fifteen bright sovereigns, glittering in the light of the lantern.
Roden Musgrave wanted money just as much as the average junior Civil Servant habitually does, or for the matter of that the average senior either. He had repeatedly tried to realise the old muzzle-loader, and had at length given it up in disgust. As the other had said, nobody would bid so much as a pound for it. And here was an offer of fifteen sovereigns for it—fifteen sovereigns in hard cash, lying there to be picked up. Of course he knew perfectly well what it was wanted for, but equally did he know that the average Kaffir is so wretched a shot as to be unable to hit a house, unless he were first dropped down the chimney thereof. If this fool, bursting with martial ardour, chose to steal away and join the hostile tribes, he was pretty certain to get bowled over himself, but it was a hundred to one against him being marksman enough to inflict any damage upon the Colonial ranks. Indeed, were it otherwise, what was it to him, Roden? No unit of the extremely limited number in whose well-being he had the faintest interest was at that moment at the front, or was in the least likely to go. “Why should he refuse a good offer, a very good offer?”
He looked at the fifteen sovereigns lying there in a row, and he looked at the Kaffir who was eagerly watching him. The boy had an open, honest face, and might safely be trusted to hold his tongue. Besides, Kaffirs usually keep faith in a fair and straightforward transaction between man and man. A moment more, and he would have concluded the deal, when his instincts of prudence and caution put before him one consideration. He dared not.
Looked at from the lowest grounds, he dared not. Were the transaction brought home to him, it would mean his ruin. He would be ignominiously dismissed his post, and probably proceeded against criminally, into the bargain: result, a ruinous fine, the possibility even of imprisonment without that doleful option. Even the suspicion of such a thing would mean a bar to all his official prospects. Fifteen golden sovereigns were good, but not good enough as a set-off against so tremendous a risk, and the same would apply to six times the sum were it offered.
“I can’t do it, Tom,” he said, his mind now as thoroughly made up as ever it had been in his life. “The fact is, I dare not.”
The other was woefully disappointed. He could not offer more for he had not another farthing in the world. As for any risk he said, he would rather die than break faith by letting out one word on the subject of the transaction to any living soul—white, black, or yellow. Let the Baas cast his eyes backward. Who was there who could say anything against his character, or adduce one single instance of him ever having broken his word? He had been long in Doppersdorp, and had served more than one master; yet no one had anything but good to say about him, except, perhaps, the one he was then serving.
“I tell you, Tom, I can’t do it,” repeated Roden. “Do you know you are asking me to break the law, which I am here to help administer? Look, now! If you can get the magistrate to give a permit, it’s another thing, though even then I should bring a pretty hornet’s nest about my ears were the matter known. But you are about as likely to find a magistrate who will consent to sign a permit for the sale of a gun to a Kaffir, while there’s war going on between the Colony and that Kaffir’s fellow-countrymen as you are to find a Bushman Hottentot who would refuse to get drunk if you made him a present of a bucketful of brandy. I can’t do it, Tom. Wait, though; why don’t you get your master, Baas Sonnenberg, to sell you one. He’d sell you a grin of a sort—or his immortal soul, if he’s got one—for fifteen sovereigns cash. Try him. Besides, I should be delighted to have him chocked into the tronk for ‘gun-running.’ Try him, Tom,” he went on, banteringly sneering, as he saw the other start and his face light up eagerly at this reference to Sonnenberg. “Well now, that deal is off, clean off, you understand, so pick up your money again and clear, for it’s getting precious late. Here’s a bit of tobacco for you.”
The Kaffir picked up the coins in silence, tying them up in the greasy rag as before.
“Fifteen pounds is a lot of money,” went on Roden, “and to-morrow you’ll be only too glad I didn’t take your offer when you find you still have the money, instead of going away to get shot like the rest of your people.”
“Au!” exclaimed the fellow half to himself, yet looking up briskly as though a new and bright idea had dawned upon him in the words. “When I find I still have the money,” he repeated, as he took his leave.