“He has had enough of your fists, young man, for the present, I expect, only be on your guard with him for the future. Boers don’t forget blows, neither do they care much about fighting in the open. He will try a bead on you next from behind a kopje.”
He was an immense figure of a man who had come out of the veldt so unexpectedly, considerably over six feet in height and broad in proportion. His skin was ruddy, with bold features, light, keen eyes, and he wore a small, fair moustache. As the boys looked at him, they each thought they had seen him somewhere before, but where they could not at the time remember. There was about him an air of kingly authority which fascinated them.
“Have you any coffee left?” he asked gently.
Clarence went instantly to the half-empty billy at the fire, and brought a pannikin filled. The stranger took it with a nod, and slowly sipped the contents, looking at them scrutinisingly as he drank.
Cousin Groblaar still lay sleeping heavily within the shadow of one of the waggons. Stephanus had moved away to some considerable distance to brood over his defeat and bathe his eyes and nose at a water-hole. The Kaffirs were also sound asleep on their side of the fire, therefore they had this contested part of the veldt to themselves.
“You managed that onslaught in very good style, my lad, and have made for yourself a pretty dangerous enemy, or I am much mistaken in my reading of faces.”
“An avowed enemy is better than a secret one, sir, and I have good reasons to suspect Stephanus Groblaar of being one before this night,” replied Ned.
“Ah, Groblaar is his name! Any friend of Groblaar, the vine-grower, of Stellenbosch?”
“His nephew, sir. Yonder lies his son asleep.”
“Let him sleep,” said the stranger, hastily. “Then the young man you punished must be the son of Burgher Groblaar, of Pretoria?”