“Um? Yes. Know what to say, like Boss Val know. Always talk like Boer before Joeboy come and live with Boss Val.”
“Of course,” I whispered, with a feeling of relief.
“Um! Boss Val jump in wagon and say nothing. Go to sleep like. Doppie coming.”
He gave me a push towards the wagon and went forward at a trot. Yielding to his influence, I climbed in at the front, past the driver, and drew the curtains before me, only leaving a slit through which I could hear what passed. I was not kept waiting long. As far as I could judge, about a dozen mounted men cantered up, and a thrill ran through me as a familiar, highly-pitched voice cried in English, with the broadest of Irish accents:
“Whisht now, me sable son of your mother! What does this mane?”
“Moriarty,” I said to myself; and, with my heart beating fast, and a strange feeling of rage flushing up to my head, my right hand went to my revolver and rested upon the butt as I strained my ears to listen for every word. My thoughts, of course, flashed through my brain like lightning; but the answer to the renegade captain’s words came slowly, Joeboy replying in deep guttural tones, using Boer Dutch, to say:
“I don’t know what you mean, Boss?”
“Ugh! You soot-coloured, big-lipped baste!” snarled Moriarty; and then in Boer Dutch, “Where are you taking the wagons?”
“Over yonder,” replied Joeboy.
“Why? Who told you?”