“Jack sick, bad,” he said.
“Jack no sick bad,” cried Tanta, leaping up angrily.
As she spoke, she raised one broad black foot, and gave her husband a sharp thrust in the ribs, with the result that he rolled over and then jumped up furiously to retaliate.
“Ah, would you!” cried Dyke; and the dog, which had followed him, began to growl. “Yes, you hit her, and I’ll set Duke at you,” cried Dyke. “Can’t you see he’s ashamed?”
Jack growled fiercely, and his wife reseated herself upon her heels, and went on stirring the egg again, laughing merrily the while.
“No sick bad,” she said; and then wanting to say something more, she rattled off a series of words, all oom and click, for Jack’s benefit, the Kaffir listening the while.
The egg was soon after declared to be done, and formed a very satisfactory omelette-like addition to the hard biltong and mealie cake which formed the ostrich-farmers’ dinner.
“I’d a deal rather we’d shot an antelope, Joe,” said Dyke, as he ground away at the biltong, that popular South African delicacy, formed by cutting fresh meat into long strips, and drying them in the sun before the flesh has time to go bad—a capital plan in a torrid country, where decomposition is rapid and salt none too plentiful; but it has its drawbacks, and is best suited to the taste of those who appreciate the chewing of leather with a superlatively high flavour of game.
“Yes, it is time we had some fresh meat, old chap,” said Emson good-humouredly. “After that slice of luck with the birds, we’ll try for some guinea-fowl or a springbok in the morning.”
“I wish we had a river nearer where we could fish,” said Dyke, as he worked away at the dried meat.