They laughed, they shouted, they danced. They called for coffee, tea, lemonade, and a dish full of the nicest cake in the establishment, and placed it before the strangers, who carried such samples of quartz about them.
‘Eet, mijnheer, drink, mijnheer, ons zal betaal’—‘eat and drink master, we will pay.’
When they had quieted down, the Jews came and seated themselves near to Steve and Oom Hans, and started pumping operations.
‘Is dis quartz from your farram, mijnheer?’
‘Yes,’ was the uncompromising reply.
‘Where do you lif, mijnheer?’
‘In the Transvaal?’
‘Yes; put where? What district?’
‘Oh, in one of the districts?’ was the laughing rejoinder.
‘Near what town, mijnheer?’