Story 9.
“A Whiskey Drinker.”
The ‘Queen’s Hotel,’ Kimberley, was doing a roaring trade. The bar was one dense mass of thirsty men, struggling to get served with splits and other drinks. The large dining-room, out of which the tables had been taken, was crowded. People from all parts of the colony were there. Dutch Africanders from the western province, Englishmen from the east; colonial soldiers; officers of the Cape Mounted Rifles, and mounted police officers from the frontier; merchants from Capetown and Port Elizabeth, and visitors from every part of South Africa. Besides these visitors there was every sort of Diamond-Field man represented. The honest digger—the expression is considered out there the correct one to use, though if it be your lot to have much dealing with the mining element of South Africa you will wonder how it came into vogue—with his broad-brimmed hat and big beard and bad language is making himself conspicuous as he generally does, wherever he be. The diamond-buyers, licensed and unlicenced, gentlemen of the Jewish persuasion for the most part, given as a rule to wearing much of their stock-in-trade on their hands, and indulging in that shiny smartness of dress so dear to the race; the latter, the unlicenced and unlawful dealers in diamonds, wearing in their eyes that restless uneasy look that is peculiar to those classes who are liable at any moment to find themselves involved in an embarrassing and one-sided misunderstanding with the police. There were merchants, speculators, lawyers, doctors, and civil servants there. About some men who took rather a prominent position there was the unmistakable betting man’s look; and they gave one the idea that they would be at home in the ring at any English race meeting. The occasion was the drawing of the lotteries for the forthcoming races, and as times had been good, and money was plentiful, sovereigns were flowing in very quickly to the men who were giving out the chances. I was looking on smoking when I recognised a slight, good-looking man who was taking a ticket in the lottery. His name was Jack Harman, an ex-officer in the army, who had been a digger on the Diamond Fields, had married and settled in the colony.
“How is it you’re up here?” I said to him as I shook hands with him. “A married man like you ought not to be wandering about the country.”
“You’re right—wish to goodness I was at home, for the missis is ill; but I have to look after my horses up here.”
“Well, I suppose your horse Marmion is a certainty for the cup, eh?” I said. “Up here they think the race is over.”
“All I can say is, that it isn’t, I wish it were, for it’s a rich prize, and goodness knows I want the money badly enough.”
Just then a dark-bearded man pushed past Jack Harman, and as he did so gave him a look of recognition which the latter answered by a blank stare.
“Who’s that?—who’s your friend?” I asked him.
“That is one of the blackest-hearted scoundrels unhanged; he is a sort of fellow you read about in a book; Solomon Muzada is his name, and he is one of the greatest enemies I have. Do you know that brute wanted to marry my wife; it’s an infernal cheek because there is a touch of the tar-brush in him. Dutchman, Jew, and nigger—it’s a nice breed, isn’t it? Of course she wouldn’t look at him, and since our marriage he has been our enemy. There was a mortgage on Laurie’s Kloof, on which I ought to have paid the interest, but didn’t; well he has bought it, and by Jove he is going to sell us up. He has sworn he will make a bankrupt of me, and I believe he will do it. Do you hear that? I have drawn a horse Storm Drum. By George, that’s a rum thing!” he added, as he caught something which the steward of the races, who was managing the drawing, had shouted out. “Look here, are you going to do anything about the races, because don’t make any bets till you have seen me. I must see about the selling,” he said as he went off.