“I don’t suppose he knows, but if he guesses he’d sooner hang himself than let on a word.”
“Do you know, Mr Greenoak has a reputation for clearing up mysteries. There was that haunted farm on the Sneeuw River in our neighbourhood. No one could stay there; all sorts of weird things happened. The new owner—who bought it for a song, on the strength of its dark reputation—got Mr Greenoak to investigate the affair, and he cleared it up to the satisfaction of all concerned; and the new people never had any more bother or disturbance. They’ve lived there ever since. But Mr Greenoak never let go a word as to what the mystery was or how he had put an end to it; no, not even to the owner himself.”
“Well, I shan’t ask him,” said Dick Selmes, very interested, “for it’s a dead cert that if he never told anybody else he won’t tell me.”
“There are other stories about him, too. Once he was instrumental in saving two Kafirs from being hanged—only just in the nick of time—for the murder of a Dutchman’s wife, by finding out that it had been done by the Dutchman himself.”
“Was the Dutchman hanged?”
“He would have been, only he got away to the Transvaal in time. He was safe there, of course.”
“Well, I hope if Greenoak gets on to any more enterprises of the kind he’ll cut me into them with him—that’s all,” said Dick. “Hallo! Here’s Kleinbooi.”
“Baas,” said the Fingo, saluting, “I got very good bit news. There’s a big tiger fast in the trap, up there, in Slaang Kloof. I go tell Ou’ Baas. He come quick shoot it.”
“Oh, good—and good again!” cried Dick. “We’ll go up there sharp.”
“Oh, never mind me. Only, I don’t feel inclined to run,” said Hazel, mischievously; for her companion in his excitement had started off with quick eager strides.