"The nigger-man?"
Mr. Samson and the Boer exchanged glances.
"Look here," said Mr. Samson; "Du Preez and I had an understanding about it, but don't let it go any further. You see, after all that has happened, we could n't let the chap go to gaol. No sense in that. So the bobby being as drunk as David's sow, I had a word with him. I told him I didn't retract anything, but we were all open to make mistakes, and—to cut it short—he 'd better get away while he had the chance."
"Yes," said Ford. "Did he?"
"He didn't want to at first," replied Mr. Samson. "His idea was that he had to clear himself of the charge on which he was arrested. Sedition, you know. All rot, of course, but that was his idea. So I promised to write to old Bill Winter—feller that owes me money—he 's governor of the Cape, or something, and put it to him straight."
"He will write to him and say it is lies," said the Boer. "He knows him."
"Know him," cried Mr. Samson. "Never paid me a bet he lost, confound him. Regular old welcher, Bill is. Van Coller chipped in too—treated him like an equal. And in the end he went. Van Coller says he 'd like to have had his medical education. I say, what 's that?"
A sudden noise had interrupted him, a sharp report from somewhere within the house. The Boer nodded slowly, and made for the door.
"That policeman has shot somebody," he said.
Dr. Jakes waked to the morning light with a taste in his mouth which was none the more agreeable for being familiar. He opened his hot eyes to the strange disarray of his study, the open door and the somnolent form of the policeman, and sat up with a jerk, almost sober. He stared around him uncomprehending. The lamp burned yet, and the room was stiflingly hot; the curtains had not been put back and the air was heavy and foul. He got shakily to his feet and went towards the hall. His wife, with coffee cups on a tray, was coming down the stairs. She saw him and put the tray down on the table against the wall and went to him.