At last one night matters were brought to a crisis. They had crossed the Vaal river, and were outspanning on the open veldt.
Eight of their heavy-laden teams were all that remained with them. The contents of the other twelve drays had been disposed of on the way up, and the teams sent down the country again with chance loads. The eldest of Santa’s brothers alone remained with the young men and Stephanus to look after the Transvaal business. He was a stolid, good-natured fellow, who did his utmost to keep peace in the camp, and turn his cousin’s ill-timed remarks into jokes.
But Stephanus seemed bent on a quarrel that night, although with whom it was not easy to say.
Clarence seemed to feel the insults the most keenly. Ned Romer, however, sat quietly, and watched the young Boer while he listened and waited. For the first time a strong desire to measure his strength with this Dutchman came upon him—the kind of desire that young Zulus have when they want to wash their virgin spears.
A full moon shone over their heads and lighted up the level landscape with pale but vivid distinctness.
“Well,” at last observed Clarence, with a lisping drawl; he always spoke slow and lazy-like when primed up for fighting—“well, not being in Johannesburg during the time you speak about, Stephanus Groblaar, I cannot contradict you as to the colour of their flag; yet if I had been, I think I’d have done my best, young as I am, to show that there was an equal mixture of red and blue as well as white about it.”
“Hold on till you get to Pretoria. There we make Uitlanders walk with Kaffirs in the middle of the street.”
“Is this the rule in Pretoria?” asked Ned, gently.
“Yes, for the like of you; and we’ll make them do the same in Johannesburg before we have done with them,” cried Stephanus, turning on Ned with an ugly scowl.
“Nonsense. I always like the side path, and I shall use that wherever I am,” answered Ned, laughing.