Sam looked crestfallen. He had reckoned upon accompanying his master back to the war. But with the unswerving loyalty of his race towards those whom they hold in veneration he made no demur, and promised faithfully to carry out his master’s wishes to the best of his ability.
Ten minutes later Claverton was standing on the stoep of the inn, bargaining with an unkempt, sandy-bearded Dutchman, who, hastily arrayed in his shirt and trousers, stood rubbing his eyes with the air of a man just aroused from a sound sleep; as, indeed, was the case.
“You can take him for forty-five pounds,” the latter was saying, having finished a cavernous yawn.
“Ha—ha—ha! Forty-five? Now look here, Oppermann,” answered Claverton in a chaffing, good-natured tone. “You’re not awake yet, man, or you’d remember the brute wasn’t worth a dollar more than twenty. He isn’t half-broken, to begin with.”
“Twenty. Nay, what? You shall have him for forty.”
“I rather want him, but I’m in no hurry,” was the reply. “Here’s thirty, down on the nail. Look.”
He pulled out some notes, and the Dutchman’s eyes glittered.
“Thirty-five?” he began.
“No. Thirty. Take it or—leave it.”
“Well, well. Give me the money,” and he held out his hand. But Claverton was not quite so “green” as all that.