“Like enough he never got to Lydenburg. He would not have dared to go to Lydenburg after the war broke out. You should write.”
“I mean to, from Pretoria; but somehow I have had no heart for writing.”
Nothing more was said about the matter, and Ernest put the knife into his pocket.
That evening they trekked down through the “Poort” that commands the most charming of the South African towns, and, on the plain below, Pretoria, bathed in the bright glow of the evening sunshine, smiled its welcome to them. Mr. Alston, who knew the town, determined to trek straight through it and outspan the waggon on the farther side, where he thought there would be better grazing for the cattle. Accordingly, they rumbled on past the gaol, past the pleasant white building which afterwards became Government House, and which was at that moment occupied by the English Special Commissioner and his staff, about whose doings all sorts of rumours had reached them during their journey, and on to the market-square. This area was at the moment crowded with Boer waggons, whose owners had trekked in to celebrate their “nachtmaal” (communion), of which it is their habit, in company with their wives and children, to partake four times a year. The “Volksraad,” or local Parliament, was also in special session to consider the proposals made to it on behalf of the Imperial Government, so that the little town was positively choked with visitors. The road down which they were passing ran past the buildings used as Government offices, and between this and the Dutch church a considerable crowd was gathered, which, to judge from the shouts and volleys of oaths—Dutch and English—that proceeded from it, was working itself up into a state of excitement.
“Hold on,” shouted Ernest to the voorlooper; and then, turning to Mr. Alston, “There is a jolly row going on there; let us go and see what it is.”
“All right, my boy; where the fighting is, there will the Englishmen be gathered together;” and they climbed down off the waggon and made for the crowd.
The row was this. Among the Boers assembled for the “nachtmaal” festival was a well-known giant of the name of Van Zyl. This man’s strength was a matter of public notoriety all over the country, and many were the feats which were told of him. Among others it was said that he could bear the weight of the after-part of an African buck waggon on his shoulders, with a load of three thousand pounds of corn upon it, while the wheels were greased. He stood about six feet seven high, weighed eighteen stone and a half, and had a double row of teeth. On the evening in question this remarkable specimen of humanity was sitting on his waggon-box with a pipe, of which the size was proportionate to his own, clinched firmly between his double row of teeth. About ten paces from him stood a young Englishman, also of large size, though he looked quite small beside the giant, who was contemplating the phenomenon on the waggon-box, and wondering how many inches he measured round the chest. That young Englishman had just got off a newly arrived waggon, and his name was Jeremy Jones.
To these advances a cringing Hottentot boy of small size. The Hottentot is evidently the servant or slave of the giant, and a man standing by Jeremy, who understands Dutch, informs him that he is telling his master that an ox has strayed. Slowly the giant rouses himself, and, descending from the waggon-box, seizes the trembling Tottie with one hand, and, taking a reim of buftalo-hide, lashes him to the waggon-wheel.
“Now,” remarked Jeremy’s acquaintance, “you will see how a Boer deals with a nigger.”
“You don’t mean to say that great brute is going to beat that poor little devil?”