“And you wouldn’t either, sir, if it wasn’t that the Bushmen are prowling about us.”
“Did you ever have any trouble with them?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ever hear of a trader who did?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither did I. All we know about them is what we have heard of their fights with the Zulus.”
This was only the beginning of the conversation between Uncle Dick and the driver. The latter seemed to be greatly alarmed at the danger they were about to run into, and when he found his employer was resolved to go ahead, he urged him to pay him off and let him go. This Uncle Dick refused to do. He could not get on without Mack, and besides, the latter had agreed to drive the wagon to the Griqua country and back to Grahamstown for so much money, which was to be paid when the journey was ended. It was not yet half completed, and if Mack chose to stop work then and there, he could not expect a farthing for the services he had already rendered.
“You’re made of good stuff, you Yankees are,” said Mack, with more earnestness than the occasion demanded, “and since you are bound to go on, I’ll stick to you to the death. Bet on me every time.”
To give emphasis to his words the driver shook hands with his employer, then with Frank, and hurried out of the tent to see how the Kaffirs were getting on with their preparations for the night.
“Did he speak his real sentiments?” asked Uncle Dick, as soon as he was out of hearing.