“He didn’t look the same man. His face were red an’ angry, his basket-hilt was all smashed in, his knuckles were raw, and there were no more’n but a foot left of his stick.
“The Kaffir stood there, solum as a judge, with jes’ a touch of fire in his eyes. There were not so much as a mark on his smooth skin, as he slipped the blanket over his shoulder, and waited for more.
“The sergeant fished up sixpence, and gave it to the boy, without a word.
“‘You’d better go,’ I sed.
“‘Yoh,’ sed the Kaffir, looking at the sixpence; ‘is he done? Let him take another stick; we were but playing, and no one’s head is broken.’
“‘You go,’ I said; and he went, looking mighty troubled.
“I tell you what, sonny; the Queen should take a thousand of these yer red Kaffirs, and make soldiers of ’em for service in a hot country. Not here, of course, but away off in Injia. It’s a pity to waste ’em, and they’d do more good scouting than drinkin’ Cape brandy, lifting cattle, and loafin’ around. A black battalion of Kaffirs and Zulus would be no small pumpkins, an’ they could be officered by Colonials who know the language.”