‘Oh, so you are taking a fit of Anglo-mania, too, now—you—cur, you—dog, you coward.’
‘And I am a Britisher too, and I also say Hurrah for Jameson,’ cried Nande.
Steve stood with clenched hands, pale as death.
‘And I say that the man who turns his coat and stands away from his countrymen in their time of need is worse than a dog, is worse than a Kaffir, for even a Kaffir will stand by his people in time of need. You are both dogs—curs, and worse than curs, you mongrel Afrikanders.’
‘Look here, young man, you must be careful what you say; you must remember we are four against you alone; we will soon take your gas out of you,’ said Nande.
‘Come on then all of you. One true Afrikander can always down half-a-dozen cowardly curs like you. I do not believe a hundred like you would have the pluck to tackle one single Boer. Come on, I am ready for you.’
He stood with his back against the wall, with clenched fists, fierce set face, and gleaming eyes.
Nande snatched an axe handle standing near, and crying to the other three to ‘come on and let us silence this miserable Boer,’ he walked in a threatening way to within three paces of Steve. Steve stood calmly but determinedly awaiting the attack. When Nande stopped three paces in front of him, Steve looked him full in the eyes. Nande could not stand that look; he trembled with fear, and looking away, he turned to the others and said,—
‘Are you fellows not going to help me to give this Boer a good thrashing?’
Keith and Harrison looked contemptuously at him, the former remarking that,—