“I want the officers to see what beautiful corn it is,” he said.
The sergeant reached up into the wagon-tilt to lift down the lantern from where he had hung it to one of the tilt-bows.
“No, no,” cried the Boer; “you needn’t do that, boss. They can see. There,” he cried, thrusting in both hands and scooping as much as he could grasp, and letting the glistening yellow grains fall trickling back in a rivulet again and again. “See that? Hard as shot. Smell it. Fresh. This year’s harvest. I know where there’s enough to feed four or five thousand men.”
“Yes, it looks good,” said Dickenson, helping himself to a handful, and putting a grain into his mouth. “Sweet as a nut, Drew, but as hard as flint. Fine work for the teeth.”
“Yes,” said the Boer, grinning. “You English can’t grind that up with your teeth. Wait till it’s boiled, though, or pounded up and made into mealie. Ha! Make yours skins shine like the Kaffirs’.”
“You don’t want these sacks back, I suppose?” said the sergeant who was superintending. “Because if you do I’d better have them emptied.”
“Oh no, oh no,” said the Boer. “Keep it as it is; it will be cleaner.”
“Why are some of the sacks tied up with white string and some with black?” said Lennox suddenly.
“Came from different farms,” said the Boer, who overheard the remark. “Here, I’ll open that one; it’s smaller corn.”
He signed to one of his fellows to set down the sack he was about to shoulder, and opening it, he went through the same performance again, shovelling up the yellow grain with his hands. “Not quite so good as the other sort,” he said; “it’s smaller, but it yields better in the fields.”