The Hottentot smiled. “It is quite true, Baas. Bad news flies like a bird,” and he picked himself up and slipped off to his work.
Notwithstanding the apparent impossibility of the thing, John was considerably disturbed, knowing the extraordinary speed with which tidings do travel among Kafirs, more swiftly, indeed, than the fleetest mounted messenger can bear them. Leaving Bessie, who was also somewhat alarmed, he went in search of Silas Croft, and, finding him in the garden, told him what Jantje had said. The old man did not know what to make of the tale, but, remembering Frank Muller’s threats, he shook his head.
“If there is any truth in it, that villain Muller has a hand in it,” he said. “I’ll go to the house and see Jantje. Give me your arm, John.”
He obeyed, and, on arriving at the top of the steep path, they perceived the stout figure of old Hans Coetzee, who had been John’s host at the shooting-party, ambling along on his fat little pony.
“Ah,” said Silas, “here is the man who will tell us if there is anything in it all.”
“Good-day, Oom Coetzee, good-day!” he shouted out in his stentorian tones. “What news do you bring with you?”
The jolly-looking Boer rolled awkwardly off his pony before answering, and, throwing the reins over its head, came to meet them.
“Allemachter, Oom Silas, it is bad news. You have heard of the bymakaar at Paarde Kraal. Frank Muller wanted me to go, but I would not, and now they have declared war on the British Government and sent a proclamation to Lanyon. There will be fighting, Oom Silas, the land will run with blood, and the poor rooibaatjes will be shot down like buck.”
“The poor Boers, you mean,” growled John, who did not like to hear her Majesty’s army talked of in terms of regretful pity.
Oom Coetzee shook his head with the air of one who knew all about it, and then turned an attentive ear to Silas Croft’s version of Jantje’s story.