“Is it the grass on fire?” said Dick, as Mr Rogers brought his little double glass to bear.
“It is no fire at all,” said his father, “but dust. There is a great herd of buffalo crossing the plain, and we ought to get a shot.”
Click! click! went the lock of Jack’s rifle, and he leaped down to tighten his girths.
“No!” said Mr Rogers; “they are oxen and horsemen. It is a large party crossing the plain—an emigration of Boers, I’ll be bound.”
They rode gently on towards the long line of dust-clouds, which was passing at right angles to them; and as they drew nearer they could plainly see beneath the lurid sky figures of men on horseback, blacks mounted on oxen, and waggon after waggon with its enormously long team.
As they approached, some of the sun-tanned, dejected-looking men riding in front turned their heads, and stared sullenly at the little party, but they seemed to have no desire for any friendly intercourse; and when Mr Rogers spoke to them they replied sullenly in broken English mixed with Dutch, that they were going north.
They were curious-looking men from an English point of view, and would have been greatly improved by the use of a pair of scissors to their long, abundant, fair hair. Each man carried his rifle ready for the first enemy that might cross
his path, and their numerous black servants trudged on with loads or rode the oxen.
These blacks, too, took the attention of the boys, one being a perfect giant in his way, a great square shouldered fellow of quite six-feet-six in height; while another, mounted upon an ox, had his hair twisted up into a couple of points, standing up from his head like the horns of an antelope.