“You are wrong, for a fiver. Why, she wears no jewellery!”
“Done with you. I say, Coetzee, step up and ask who she is.”
“Coetzee daren’t do it. Another fiver he does not ask.”
“Stuff, man; you should know better than to dare Coetzee after dinner. Eh, Piet?”
“What is it you say?” asked the third of the noisy group—a tall, powerfully-built young Dutchman. “She looked at me a minute ago, and if it was not an invitation, I’m mistaken in woman.”
“And you know them so well, don’t you?” said the first man, with a sneer.
“None better, although the little barmaid did throw him over for five feet ten of starched collar and eyeglass.”
“You laugh, you skeppsels, but you know well I could take the two of you, one in either hand, and drop you into the street.”
“Oh, yes, you are strong, Piet, as one of your own trek oxen; but all the same, you daren’t speak to that lady.”
“Soh! Look, now!” And Piet, placing his soft hat rakishly on one side, swaggered down the veranda until he faced the group of three, who were calmly oblivious to all around.