As there was no reply to this, not even a change in the look nor a twitch of a muscle to be construed into acknowledgment of the remark, the speaker resumed quickly and with less composure:
“The niggers told us you hung out about here, and, bein’ the only white man in these parts, we kind o’ came along to see what was doin’, and if there was any chance of reefin’, and about the licences and water and that.”
The owner of the house continued to look steadily and in silence at the speaker. The latter, when the invitation of a second pause passed unaccepted, flushed up and, abandoning the previous method, asked curtly:
“Can you sell us any food? Fowls or crushed mealies, or anything. We’re half dead o’ trampin’ over your damned hills, and I want food for self and mates. We’re far down enough, but we reckon to pay for what we get. We’re not loafin’!”
The man did not appear to notice this hostile tone any more than he had the former conciliatory one; but, after another deadly pause, he asked, in a quiet, clear voice:
“Your name?”
“Bankerpitt,” said the other. The faintest trace of a smile lit up the man’s face as he remarked quietly:
“Ah, H. Bankerpitt”—and glancing for the first time at the rest of the party—“and twenty-nine others!”
He turned and walked slowly into the house, closing the door after him.
Bankerpitt had scarcely strength to say, “Well, I’m damned!”