“Besser.”
“And curled himself up, and went to sleep.”
“Das vas der best of all, mein young vrient. Aha! Goot tog, den. You let me zee how you vas pad. I am your master’s vrient; das ist zo.”
He advanced his hand to where Duke lay just inside the canvas, and the dog gave the skin on which he lay two thumps with his tail.
“Das ist goot,” said the old German trader. “Ach! yaas; you haf been pite on dem pack, und scratch, scratch along bofe your zides; boot you are a prave tog, and zoon be guite well again.”
Duke’s tail performed quite a fantasia now, and he uttered a low whine and licked at the great, fat, friendly hand which patted his head.
“Und now vere is der poy?”
“Get into the wagon,” said Dyke; and the German climbed in, followed by Dyke, and stooped down over the figure of Kaffir Jack, who lay on a blanket, with his head toward the front part of the wagon, through which opening the evening light still streamed.
The Kaffir’s head was tied-up with a bandage formed of the sleeve of a shirt cut off at the shoulder, split up lengthwise at the seams, tied together so as to make it long enough, and this was stained with blood, evidently days old.
The Boer gazed down at the Kaffir, and Jack gazed up at him, screwing up his face in the most piteous fashion.