The boy shook his head, his lips parted, but the words never came. The next instant his rifle spoke its last message, and the Zulus rushed in.
They found them both; the boy lying across his father’s broad breast. And the little mother sat tearless through the night crying that “The Groot Heer was good, but he had taken all—all,” while Oom Jan wept like a child.
Chapter Thirty Five.
Uncle Abe and the Snake.
The day was wet, the ploughing was over, and as we had an idle spell, what more natural than that most of us should find business at the store? where we sat on bags and boxes, and smoked and talked, or sometimes sang beautifully to the wailing tunes from Long Jim’s concertina. This day old Abe Pike, humped up on the counter, with his heels drumming against the side of it, was holding forth on the iniquity of Parliament, when a stranger entered, wringing wet, and Abe stopped to investigate his appearance.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” said the stranger—a townsman evidently, from his dress and assurance.
“Take a seat,” said Abe, pointing with his boot at a box of soap. “Not walking, are yer?” with a curious glance at the stranger’s knickerbockers. “Going far? Stopping here long? Stranger, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” said the newcomer with a laugh. “I’ve come thirty miles since breakfast.”