Swartz gazed in the direction indicated, and his stolid countenance took on a certain degree of interest.
“Ach wot, ja! That must be old Johannes de Beer’s, the transport rider’s place, yes! I heered he had come to live about here, but he won’t be no good to us, Baas. A slegte kerel! Says he hates the rooi-neks and would like to shoot them like schelm wherever he meets them on the veld.”
“Ah! What part is he from?”
“The Transvaal, Baas. But he’s different from other Boers. He lived in Delagoa Bay when he was a young kerel and went a trek once on a Portuguese gunboat and learnt a lot of slegte ways from these dago sailors. I’ve heard that he is all covered with red and blue anchors and animals that he had made on himself.”
“Very interesting,” said Carden dryly. “We may as well see what this genius can do for us, Tal. If he won’t put us up for the night we may at least be able to buy some bread to eat with our buck. Come on.”
“Gad! I’m glad to stretch my legs again,” said Talfourd getting stiffly out of the cart. Preceded by the bounding dogs they made their way to the house. As they drew near they recognised the typical Boer farm—a low sprawling building with high stoep and verandah. The white thing Carden had noticed was, as he had supposed, the dress of a woman sitting on a wooden bench by the door. About thirty yards from the house was a fire with a large three-legged pot over it, and another woman, a Kaffir with a shrewd withered face squatted beside it stirring with a long metal spoon. A blue vapour rose from the pot and the scent of roasting coffee beans was on the air. One lonely, sinister-looking tree grew by itself to the left of the stoep and a baboon chained to it barked hoarsely at them as they approached. The old Kaffir regarded them with unfriendly eyes, but the woman in the verandah rose and came down the steps and they saw that she was a young girl, slim and straight in a pink print dress with her face far back in a print sunbonnet. All that could be distinguished in the failing light was that like most Boer girls she had a fine complexion. Carden took off his hat and shook hands with her in the Boer fashion, addressing her in good Dutch.
“Dag Jefrouw! Is this Johannes de Beer’s place?”
“Jah Mynheer. This is Greis-Kopje (Grey-hill) farm,” she answered. Her voice was surprisingly soft and melodious, and it seemed to Carden that he had heard one like it before.
“Our cart has broken down, and we want to know if Mr de Beer can put us up for the night. Perhaps we could speak to him?”
“He has gone to Pretoria,” said the girl. “There is only Grietje, Yacop, and me here.”