“Quarrel, seemingly, captain,” said Sir James, smiling.
“Or a fit of bad temper,” said the doctor, “because the big fellow’s night, was disturbed. Here, what’s the matter, Denham?” he continued, as they reached the shady pasture where the sleek bullocks were knee deep in rich grass, evidently laying in a store for emergencies when fodder might be scarce. “Don’t say that any of the cattle have strayed?”
“Strayed, sir? Not they! They are all right—eight-and-forty of them. I counted them over twice to make sure, after the night’s scare. My bullocks are all right. I only wish I could trust my men as well as I can them.”
“What has happened, then?”
“You ask him, sir,” replied Denham, pointing to the miserable looking little Hottentot—“a pretty sort of a half-bred animal! Look at him squatting there grinning like one of them there dog-nosed baboons.”
“Don’t insult the man,” said the doctor sharply. “What has he done?”
“Man, sir! I don’t call him a man,” said Buck Denham. “Got nothing to do but a bit of driving now and then and to give a shout at his span, and naturally I trusted him as I was keeping my eye on the oxen to keep his on the two forelopers. I let him do it because he understands their lingo better than I do.”
“Well?” said the doctor. “What then?”
“What then, sir? Here are we just two days out from the town, and he’s lost one of them already.”
“Lost? Nonsense!”