“No; I want him as a watch dog.”
“Well, seeing’s how it’s you, you can have him for a pair of blankets and a bag of meal.”
“It’s a swap, Abe. What do you call him?”
“I calls him ‘Peaceful William.’ I s’pose the club admits it’s lost the bet; ’cos, if not, William will purceed to further business.”
“The bet’s yours, Abe. Take the money, for Heaven’s sake!”
“All right, then; I’ll kraal the goat for you.”
The goat was penned up, and Abe loaded his meal on to his horse and went off.
The club watched the old man out of sight, each member absently rubbing himself, and all of them remarkably silent.
“Oh!—’ell,” said someone, in a tone of unmistakable dismay.
We all, as one man, faced round to the kraal, and then we simultaneously skurried up to the barn roof. From this position of safety we saw Peaceful William, in a shower of dust, carefully demolish the walls of the pen and the poles that supported the thatched roof, and we fearfully gazed down upon him as he walked steadily round and round the barn, stopping at intervals to rear against the wall, to eye us threateningly. I don’t know when he left, but he was not there next morning, when, at the break of day, Abe’s voice greeted us.