“I got kick in mine stomach; and all mine vind go,” was the reply.
“And our profits have gone with it, I’m afraid,” said Mr Weston dolefully. “’Pon my word, I’m a regular Jonah, and bring misfortune on all my friends!”
“Don’t talk like that, Maurice,” said the Major sharply. “Let us thank Heaven it is no worse—that no life has been lost.”
“And it might have been the other cart, you know,” put in Tom, who had joined them. “That would have been a smash!”
“Well, Mat, I am thankful it is no worse—on your account!” Mr Weston said. “Let us reckon up the damage.”
Major Flinders smiled, and replied:—“There’s the cart, forty pounds; four mules, at, let me say, twelve pounds a head—that’s as much as they were worth!—forty-eight pounds; harness and sundries another fifteen. I think a hundred will cover everything; so we sha’n’t lose all our profits, Maurice. And now, en avant!”
The travellers accomplished the descent of the mountain without further mishap, and found shelter that night at a solitary farm situated in the plain below.
Here they remained for a couple of days, for the mules were regularly knocked up, and required a long rest before they were in a condition to travel the last stage—a distance of forty miles.
Early on the morning of the second day they once more inspanned, and the team being freshened considerably by their twenty-four hours “play,” they got over the ground in capital style, and reached Ralfontein an hour before sundown.