Chapter Twenty Seven.
Night on the Veldt.
The Kaffir grunted, and began what Ingleborough afterwards called “chuntering,” but he obeyed at once, leading the ponies at a quick walk in and out amongst several ostrich enclosures, till they were quite a quarter of a mile from the farm, from which there came the buzz of voices and the occasional stamp of a horse on the still night air.
“No more wire fence!” said their guide, and indicating that they should urge the ponies forward he took his shield and spears from Ingleborough, caught hold of the mane of West’s pony, and then as they broke into a canter, ran lightly by the animal’s side, talking softly, and now and then breaking out into a merry laugh.
“Ought burn Tant’ Ann!” he said. “Wicked old witch! Very fat! Make her good vrouw!”
“I’m afraid Jack’s morals are sadly in need of improvement, lad,” said Ingleborough at last.
“What a horrible idea!” replied West, with a shudder; “and the worst of it is that the fellow seems to consider that it would have been a good piece of fun.”
“Yes, it is his nature to, as we are told of the bears and lions in the poems of Dr Watts. I dare say the old woman had been a horrible tyrant to the poor fellow!”