Seedling, although an official of the Boer Government, was an Englishman; there were several of them on the goldfields in those days, and for the most part, they were good fellows and good officials—this one was an exception. We all knew him personally: he was effusively friendly; and we suffered him and—paid for the drinks. That was in his public capacity: in his private capacity he was the owner of the fighting baboon of evil and cruel repute.
If ever fate’s instruments moved unconscious of their mission and the part they were to play, it is certain that Jock and Jim Makokel’ did so that day—the day that was the beginning of Seedling’s fall and end.
It is not very clear how the trouble began. We had been sitting on the little store-counter and talking for over an hour, a group of half a dozen, swapping off the news of the goldfields and the big world against that from Delagoa and the Bushveld; Seedling had joined us early and, as usual, began the morning with drinks. We were not used to that on the road or out hunting; indeed, we rarely took any drink, and most of us never touched a drop except in the towns. The transport-rider had opportunities which might easily become temptations—the load often consisting of liquor, easy to broach and only to be paid for at the end of the trip; but we had always before us the lesson of the failures. Apart from this, however, we did not take liquor, because we could not work as well or last as long, run as fast or shoot as straight, if we did. And that was reason enough!
We had one round of drinks which was ‘called’ by one of the horsemen, and then, to return the compliment, another round called by one of us. A few minutes later Seedling announced effusively that it was his ‘shout.’ But it was only ten in the morning, and those who had taken spirits had had enough, indeed, several had only taken a sip of the second round in order to comply with a stupid and vicious custom; I would not and could not attack another bottle of sour gingerbeer; and thus Seedling’s round was reduced to himself and the proprietor. No man however thirsty would drink alone in those days—it was taken a mark of meanness or evidence of ‘soaking’—and the proprietor had to be ready at any time to ‘take one for the good of the house.’
A quarter of an hour passed, and Seedling, who had said nothing since his ‘shout’ was declined, turned away and strolled out, with hands thrust deep in the pockets of his riding breeches and a long heavy sjambok dangling from one wrist. There was silence as he moved through the doorway, and when the square patch of sunlight on the earth floor was again unbroken the man behind the counter remarked,—
“Too long between drinks for him! Gone for a pull at the private bottle.”
“Is that how it’s going?”
“Yah! all day long. Drinks here as long as any one’ll call, but don’t do much shoutin’ on his own, I tell you! That’s the first time I seen him call for a week. He wanted to get you chaps on the go, I reckon. He’ll be wrong all day to-day. I know him!”
“Cost him two bob for nothing, eh!”
“Well, it ain’t so much that; ye see, he reckoned you’d all shout your turns, and drinks’d come regular; but he sees you’re not on. Twig? I’m not complainin’ mind you—Lord no! He don’t pay any way! It’s all ‘chalked up’ for him, an’ I got to wipe it off the slate when the next loads comes and he collects my customs’ duties. His liquor’s took him wrong to-day—you’ll see!”