“Will you? Why, curs like you could not use this veldt as you like unless with our permission, far less the sides of our streets.”
“Ah, indeed, Mr Groblaar,” said Ned, rising to his feet slowly. “Is there any particular portion of this place that you as a free burgher might prohibit tonight?”
“Yes; I defy you to pass me now.”
They were all standing now with the exception of the cousin Groblaar, who lay on his back snoring.
“Wait a moment, Ned,” said Clarence, softly. “I think Stephanus only meant to stop me from walking past him.”
“No,” growled the Boer; “I did not mean you. I don’t want to interfere with you, nor with Fred either, for you are both colonial born and bred. It is this cur of a John Bull that I’d teach to keep his place.”
“Good,” answered Ned. “Then this cur of a John Bull accepts your gentlemanly challenge, and will show you that he knows his place, and that place is, whatever spot of the earth he finds it expedient for the advance of civilisation to tread upon.”
He walked steadily up to the Boer with his arms held limply down; then, before the other could put up his fists, Ned suddenly gripped him and sent him sprawling some feet away, while he stood where Stephanus had been.
“This is Imperial ground, you Dutch Boer, upon which the Lion of Britain permits your people to play for the present.”
It was a grand speech, which Ned felt proud to give voice to, and which his chums cheered. Another clear voice behind them cried, “Bravo, young cub!” but none looked round to hear who spoke. Stephanus did not give them time for that.