She responded, and poised herself on the other foot for a change. After a moment, as old Retief put his pipe in his mouth and made no attempt at an introduction, the stranger continued, speaking with an air of quiet assurance to which her various Boer swains had not accustomed Chrissie.
“Miss Retief?”
She nodded.
“My name is Richard Braddon and I am the engineer in charge of the railway-laying party. I’m trying to persuade your father that it is of no use kicking against the Government. He’d far better let us go about the business quietly.”
“And I tell you you had better save your breath,” snorted Nick, “and keep off my land or I’ll blow you off from the barrel of my old Mauser.”
The young man’s red skin grew a shade redder, but he smiled dryly:
“I’m afraid I’ll have to risk that, Mr Retief, when the time comes.”
Chrissie secretly approved the I-don’t-give-a-damn-for-you-and-your-old-Mauser way in which he said it. That was something to say to old Nick Retief all the same! She turned on her father now expostulating:
“Foy toch, Poppa! It is not his fault, then. He has to do what the Government tells him, but!”
“I’m not going to have the stink-engines on my land,” repeated Nick.