“Anything that turns up. I may get you a bullock team to help to drive up to the Transvaal. That would show you a lot of the country, and give you plenty of experience as well. It is rough a bit, and will take you some time, but you don’t mind that, I suppose?”
“Not at all; it will train us to rough it in the wilds, and we can afford to spend a little time getting colonial experience.”
This conversation took place between Madeira and the island of Tenerife.
A curious, and what might have been a tragic adventure had happened to Ned Romer just outside of Funchal, while they were seeing the sights of that lovely and precipitous island of Madeira.
The three young men had gone inland with Stephanus Groblaar. While standing on the edge of one of the cliffs with a sheer drop of seven hundred feet, Stephanus had suddenly made a stumble and lurched against Ned with his full force.
The guide, who was near at hand, saved our principal hero from a horrible death, by what seemed like a miracle.
Ned was just going over, when the guide caught hold of his coat-tails, and by a sudden and powerful tug, landed him on his back over the body of Stephanus, who had fallen on his face.
It was a considerable shock to Ned’s nerves, and he rose a little chalky about the gills. But his pallor was nothing to that which overspread the face of the young Boer, making his bronzed skin look like old ivory. He shook as if he had the palsy, and for some moments could not utter a word. When he did find his voice, his expressions of regret and self-reproach were painful to listen to, considering that it was only an accident.
He said he had been seized with a sudden giddiness which he could not account for. The guide listened to his explanation and apologies with a stolid expression, but took good care during the rest of the journey to keep a firm hold of his arm when they were near any dangerous ledge.
It was while they were lying at Tenerife that the second attack of giddiness seized Stephanus, and once more Ned was the object against which he fell.