A chuckle came from the armchair. Then President Kruger for the first time spoke in very fair English—the tongue he understood perfectly but hated so viciously. As he spoke he smiled a fat wrinkly smile that gave his face a simple and grotesque expression of good humour. His voice was thick and rumbling.
“You are a slim carl for your age, younker. How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” replied Ned.
“And you, my young brakjes?”
Not knowing that “brakje” was a term of contempt, they answered freely enough. Again Kruger chuckled, while he shook his ponderous head and pointed his clumsy finger at them.
“Far too young to be mixed up in conspiracy and treason. Young gentlemen like you ought to stay in your own country, and not come here breaking the laws and making riots.”
“We have done nothing, your Excellency,” said Ned.
“Do you call it nothing to knock down four honest burghers, smash the nose of one and the jawbone of another? Do you call it nothing to threaten my police with a revolver, and use the insolent language you have done?”
He had risen to his feet by this time, pulled himself out of the chair ponderously and by degrees. As he stood now towering above them like a hippopotamus, he impressed them with his physical strength. His eyes were beginning to lighten up dangerously.
“I have you in the hollow of my hand, you miserable brakjes, as I hold every dog in my country. What you have so foolishly spoken entitles you to hard labour for some years. The assault you committed on the authorities is punishable by death. Do you think I can allow my men to be injured in this way by boys—eh?”