From the shock of that fall Joe Granton sustained heavy concussion of the brain, and had to be carried with much care and difficulty back to Tapinyani’s town. Hume Wheler, with infinite solicitude and care, superintended this operation, while Lane stayed out another two days in the veldt and shot three giraffe for the chief and his people. Hume Wheler himself had the satisfaction of bringing down his first and a good many more “camels” at a subsequent period.
A fortnight’s careful nursing at Tapinyani’s restored Joe Granton to something like his normal health. In due time the expedition returned, after a tedious and even dangerous trek, to Vryburg.
Whether it was, in truth, the coveted giraffe’s tail that settled the business; whether it was the dangerous accident Joe had suffered in her behalf; or whether Kate Manning had not for some time before had a tender corner in her heart for Joe Granton, is scarcely of consequence. Certain it is that, not long after the presentation of the precious trophy, a question that Joe put to Kate was answered in a way that made him extravagantly happy.
The members of the Tapinyani syndicate sold their concession very well during a boom in the South African market, and Joe Granton’s share enabled him to set up cattle ranching in handsome fashion. He and his wife live very happily on a large farm given to them as a portion by Mr Manning. Here they have made a very charming home of their own. The great black switch tail of the bull giraffe hangs on the dining-room wall, plain evidence of the curious romance in which it had been involved.
Hume Wheler, who, with Tom Lane, occasionally drops in upon them during his periodical trips from the interior, often chaffs his old friends upon that celebrated trophy. “Ah! Mrs Joe,” he says, on one of these occasions, as he takes one of her two youngsters on his knee and looks up at the tail. “Your husband captured you by a magnificent accident. There never was a bigger fluke in this world than when the old fraud knocked over that big ‘camel.’”
Chapter Nine.
Vrouw Van Vuuren’s Frenchman.
It was not until the second time I stayed with him that old Cornelis Van Vuuren began to open his heart, and to pour fitfully into my ears, from the rich storehouse of his memory, many a strange tale of veldt life. I had been fortunate enough to render some little service to a son of the Van Vuurens, far up in the hunting veldt; and these kindly, if somewhat uncouth, South African Dutch folk do not lightly forget such matters. When I passed through the Orange Free State on my way to Natal, in the year 1880, I stayed for a night at the Van Vuurens’ farm. The good people received me with the greatest hospitality, and Cornelis pressed me to stay longer. I was unable to do so at that time; but later, on my way up-country, I outspanned at Nooitgedacht, and stayed several nights.