“Might a been a yard shorter,” said Abe, carelessly, as he paused at the door.
“Come back, old man,” said Jim. “Take this chair—and there’s more in the jug. So; that’s good. A quarter of a mile,” he muttered. “Well, that’s good enough for a stretcher.”
“If you come along with me, Jim,” said Abe, “I’ll tell you about it. But I’m not laying myself open to words from them as is full of suspicion as a family of jackals.”
“That’s not fair to me,” I said. “I’ve swallowed—I mean I’ve accepted—all your stories without question.”
“And me, too,” said Si, with a gulp. “Try some of this Transvaal tabak—it’s first rate.”
Abe permitted himself to be appeased. He filled his pipe, and as he leant back in the chair with his heels up on the chimney, and a glass in one hand, a reminiscent look overspread his rugged face.
“This yer exper’ence happened to me away back ’fore you younkers wore shoes—but I never told it, as I were afraid of skeering the wits outer you. That’s so. The Little Kleinemonde over yonder were a blind river, same as now, with a stretch of beach about 200 yards wide ’tween its lip and the sea-foam hissing along the hard sands where the little tumble-crabs swarm in their shells, and the air comes bubbling up outer the sea-worm’s holes. It were more lonely than now—for there’s town families as picnic there for weeks in their tents—and you can hear the little children laugh—and sometimes see a string of girls holding hands and jumping up in the foam. There was never a soul then on the wide, white beach, that stretched away miles east and west—with black rocks running out into the breakers—and back of the beach the high white sandhills, rimmed on the top with thick berry bushes. It were that lonely that sometimes I could have a run away, and the birds that flitted along, hunting for what the tide cast up—the oyster catcher and the curlew made it lonelier with their wild cries. And the river lay back, still and quiet, without a current—between the dark woods—quiet and still—crouching down behind the stretch of beach sand—as if it feared the roaring surf—always tossing and thundering jest across that narrow riband. And the waves came always rushing in, as though they would like to wash away the sand strip and pour their waters over the silent river—and in the spring tides I seed the outermost fringe of foam sweep a’most up to the lip of the river—and go back and come up again—swinging to and fro—till sometimes a little trickle of the salt water would fall into the dead stream, where a many fishes gathered, hoping to get out at last into the great wild waters. I caught fish there at them times—going into ten pounds—springers and steinbrasse. Well, one day there came a great storm of rain—like a cloudburst—and every cattle track and footpath were a running stream—and every river bed were filled to the brim. And in the night I yeard the thunder of the waves at the fall of the spring tide. My! How they roared through the night—and crashed as the big waves curled over and smote the water with the blow of a falling rock. The night were that wild that I could get no sleep—and went to the door to look out. The ground was wet and steaming, and the sound of running water came from every dip and hollow. I sed to myself the dead river will be alive, and the tide and flood will cut a passage deep and wide through the beach, and there will be a litter heaped along the tide mark all down the beach, with good pickings for the first man. So I put a sack over my head, and taking the old muzzle-loader, stepped out into the slushy dark, and squelched away over the sodden veld towards the Kleinemonde. I struck the ridge above the river jest about sunrise, and the light coming through the mist showed up the wildest sight of tossing waters and a beach all strewn with trees and litter of seaweed. As I thought, the dead river was alive and roaring into the seas through a broad channel cut deep into the sand. I went down to the beach and watched the flood pour out, while the spray from the waves druv stinging against my face. I tell you, it was a sight to stand and watch, not heeding the wind or the wet—and the savageness of it gripped hold of me. Bymby I crept along the beach, in and out the piled masses o’ rubbish—finding a many dead birds and sich things—then about noon I was back ag’in at the river—where the incoming tide, all red with the wash from the land, was rolling back the river water and damming up the channel ag’in with tons of sand and seaweed. I made a fire under the shelter of the wood and cooked a fat duck I picked up, and when I finished him off I dried myself by the fire while I watched the river. Jes’ then I seed something in the river that made me jump behind a tree—the black fin of the biggest shark you ever seed, standing out maybe a yard high—and raking back maybe twelve feet—with spikes all along. ‘Lord luv me!’ thinks I; ‘what in thunder’s that?’ And I let drive with both barrels, and the thing darted off with a rush that sent a wave up both sides of the banks among the trees—and far up the river I seed the sun shine on the curve of his body as he turned to come down—and I cut my stick. When I got home I set to and bent a fish-hook outen a steel stable rake—lashing on a line of buffalo rheims. I went back, baited the hook with a sea-bird that I had picked up, and let it run out, taking a bend round the tree with the rheim. The crittur I reckoned was still there—for why, he couldn’t get out by reason of the silting up of the channel—though I could see no sign of him—and he paid no heed to the bait. Well, I were getting tired, when I noticed some cattle at the bend on the other side, where there’s a bit of the flat with a ‘salt lick’—that’s a favourite place for them, by reason of the salt in the soil. They were jest capering around with their tails up, then standing to stare at something in the river, with a ole black bull nearer than the rest, pawing at the ground. I could tell there was some crittur there that they didn’t like—maybe a tiger—but I could see nix beyond a rock or tree stump. As I watched, wondering what could ha’ disturbed them, the ole bull shook his head, then fetched a deep beller and rolled on a few yards—while the cows and young stock behind came together in a bunch. Then the bull stood ag’in—pawing the wet ground—and Lord sakes!—jes’ then that rock riz out of the river.”
“What’s that?”
“Yessir!” and Abe wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “My sakes! I jes’ sunk inter the rushes in a tremble, and the ole bull, with a beller that rolled down the river, turned to run. He never got mor’n ten yards when he were caught by the neck, and I yeard his bones crunch.”
“What caught him?”