Old Dirk in Default.
“Well, Sellon, here we are—or, rather, here am I—at home again.”
The buggy, running lightly over the hard level ground, looked as dusty and travel-worn as the three horses that drew it, or as its two inmates. The red ball of the sun was already half behind the treeless sky line, and away over the plain the brown and weather-beaten walls of Renshaw’s uninviting homestead had just come into view.
Very different now, however, was the aspect of affairs to when we first saw this out-of-the-world desert farm. With the marvellous recuperativeness of the Karroo plains the veldt was now carpeted with the richest grass, spangled with a hundred varying species of delicate wild flowers. Yet, as the two men alighted at the door, there was something in the desolate roughness of the empty house that struck them both, after the comforts and cheery associations of Sunningdale.
“Home, sweet home; eh, Sellon?” continued Renshaw, grimly. “Well, it won’t be for long. One day’s rest for ourselves and horses, and the day after to-morrow we’ll start. Hallo, Kaatje, where’s old Dirk, by the way?”
The Koranna woman’s voluble and effusive greeting seemed damped by the question. She answered, guiltily—
“Old Dirk, Baas? He went away to visit his brother at Bruintjes Kraal—and bring back half a dozen goats which he sent over there before the drought. I expect him back this evening—any evening.”
“That’s what comes of putting these wretched people into a position of trust,” said Renshaw, bitterly. “How long has he been away, Kaatje?”
“Only a week, Baas. Don’t be kwaai with Dirk, Baas. My nephew Marthinus has been taking his place right well—right well. Don’t be kwaai with Dirk, myn lieve Baas!”
But Renshaw was very much disgusted. The old man had been with him for years, and he had always found him honest and trustworthy far beyond his people. Yet no sooner was his back turned than the fellow abandoned his post forthwith.