The cause of the woman’s excitement was evident directly, for there, a mile away, was a wagon drawn by a long team of oxen, and it was evident that they were to have visitors at the farm.
“Some poor wretch going up in the wilds to seek his fortune,” said Emson rather sadly. “I wish him better luck than ours, young un.”
“Oh, I say, Joe, don’t talk in that doleful way,” cried Dyke excitedly. “This is so jolly. It’s like being Robinson Crusoe and seeing a sail. Here, wait while I fetch the glass.”
Dyke returned the next minute with his hands trembling so that he could hardly focus and steady the “optic tube.” Then he shouted in his excitement, and handed the telescope to his brother.
“Why, it’s that fat old Dutchman, Morgenstern! Who’d have thought of seeing him?”
Sure enough it was the old trader, seated like the Great Mogul in the old woodcuts. He was upon the wagon-box, holding up an enormously long whip, and two black servants were with him—one at the head of the long team of twelve oxen, the other about the middle of the double line of six, as the heavy wagon came slowly along, the bullocks seeming to crawl.
“I am glad,” cried Dyke. “I say, Joe, see his great whip? He looked in the glass as if he were fishing.”
“Tant make fine big cake—kettle boil—biltong tea?” asked the Kaffir woman hospitably.
“Yes,” said Emson quietly. “But,” he continued, as Tanta Sal ran off to the back of the house, “it may not be Morgenstern, young un. Fat Germans look very much alike.”
“Oh, but I feel sure this is the old chap.—I say, what’s the German for fat old man?”