“We’ve had more than two months of it now. The relieving column can’t be far off,” suggested John; for these foolish people in Pretoria laboured under a firm belief that one fine morning they would be gratified with a vision of the light dancing down a long line of British bayonets, and of Boers evaporating in every direction like storm clouds before the sun.
Jess shook her head. She was beginning to lose faith in relieving columns that never came.
“If we don’t help ourselves, my opinion is that we may stop here till we are starved out, which in fact we are. However, it’s no use talking about it, so I’m off to fetch our rations. Let’s see, have you everything you want?”
“Everything, thanks.”
“Well, then, mind you stop quiet till I come back.”
“Why,” laughed John, “I am as strong as a horse.”
“Possibly; but that is what the doctor said, you know. Good-bye!” and Jess took her big basket and started on what John used feebly to call her “rational undertaking.”
She had not gone fifty paces from the door before she suddenly caught sight of a familiar form seated on a familiar pony. The form was fat and jovial-looking, and the pony was small but also fat. It was Hans Coetzee—none other!
Jess could hardly believe her eyes. Old Hans in Pretoria! What could it mean?
“Oom Coetzee! Oom Coetzee!” she called, as he came ambling past her, evidently heading for the Heidelberg road.