“That’s fortunate,” said Claverton. “On a day like this, brandy without water is pretty much the same as mustard without beef.”
They sat down to eat their lunch in true hunter fashion. Mighty sandwiches, hastily rolled in a bit of newspaper, strips of biltong (Note 1), and hunks of cheese, began to make their appearance from the capacious pockets of shooting-coats, while the contents of the spring were rendered more palatable by the addition of those of sundry flasks which passed from hand to hand.
It was a picturesque scene enough. The roughly-clad group lying and sitting about in various attitudes, their guns resting against a tree, and in rows upon the grass were the spoils, prominent among which was the huge carcase of the boar. Dogs lay panting in the shade, a few of them sitting on their haunches behind the hungry sportsmen, waiting for stray scraps which might be thrown them, and in the background squatted the red forms of the Kafirs, whose deep voices kept up a continual hum as they chattered among themselves and smoked their quaint, angular pipes, or devoured a mess of cold mealies, while their kerries and assegais lay on the ground beside them. Above, a great cliff towered in rugged masses; around stretched the evergreen bush.
“Have a sopje (dram), Oom Isaac?” said Naylor, holding up a big flask, and filling out a substantial measure, as the Dutchman replied in the affirmative.
“Ach! Det is alto lekker,” (that’s awfully good), said old Van Rooyen, drawing his sleeve across his mouth, and Naylor replenished the cup for the benefit of the youthful Piet.
“So you got a buck after all, Arthur?” said Jim.
“Yes, just now—up there.”
“He thinks the bucks here are all eighteen inches too short,” struck in Jeffreys, with half a sneer.
“That was only in the first kloof, Jeffreys. They’re longer about here, you see,” replied Claverton, filling his pipe. “Give us a light, Jack.”
“Here you are, old Baas. One good turn deserves another, so just throw that flask at me—thanks. Fancy Hicks treed by a pig—eh!”