Oom Willie's heart sinks into his slippers.
This, the long-expected sign that their game is up, has come at last.
He hastens to the home of his friend.
When he learns the truth the case does not seem so hopeless after all and he feels his courage returning.
"We must think of some plan with which to meet the police when they come. Quick! There is not a moment to lose. They may be here at any minute."
In an incredibly short time the officer's new saddle is buried in a bag of coal, which is again sewn up and thrown into the back-yard, while an old and worthless saddle is produced, Heaven only knows from where, cut up into pieces and placed in a large basin of water on the dining-room table.
"Now, Oom Gerrie," Mr. Botha says, as soon as he can find his breath, "you are a shoemaker by trade, and this old saddle has been sent to you by me to make shoes for my children."
"But you have not got any! and I have never made a shoe in my life!"
"Well, then, for my nieces and nephews. Never mind about your ignorance. When any one comes in, remember you are just on the point of beginning your work. I shall send you an old last when I get home."
A pocket-knife, a hammer, and a few nails scattered on the table complete the shoemaker's outfit, and there he sits, with trembling hands and spectacles on nose, far into the night, for does he not expect the dreaded knock at his front door before the dawn of another day?