“Well, why can we not go there?” asked Eugene. “If the Boers will not trade with us—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go to the Zulu country for all the money the wagon could hold,” interrupted Mack, quickly. “There is no water in the desert, and the wild bushmen are thicker than blackberries.”
“And they shoot poisoned arrows,” said Walter.
“That’s what’s the matter,” exclaimed Mack. “I’d sooner face a bullet than one of those arrows.”
“Mack!” shouted Uncle Dick, from his place under the fly of the tent where he was lying at his ease, with his hands under his head, and his big meerschaum in his mouth, “ask this fellow what he wants. I’ve forgotten all my Dutch.”
Uncle Dick was surrounded by his visitors, one of whom was holding his gun in one hand and making motions around the lock with the other, as if he were trying to explain something about it. When Mack inquired into the matter the Griquas at once gathered about him, and for a few minutes an animated discussion was carried on. The conversation was principally by signs, as it seemed to the boys, for they could not understand how any one could make sense out of words which sounded almost exactly like the grunting of pigs.
“His gun is out of order, sir, and he wants somebody to fix it,” said Mack. “The notch is worn smooth, and the hammer won’t stay back.”
“Well, tell him that I don’t keep a travelling gun-shop,” replied the old sailor.
“Let me see it,” said Frank, extending his hand for the gun, which the native promptly surrendered to him.
“Look out there, my boy,” exclaimed Uncle Dick, “or my first customer will be one of my own party.”