“You’re right, sir,—right; the mixture is not a bad one. The Dutch element gives steadiness, the English vigour, and the French spirit.—By the way, Arend,” he continued, turning to one of his stout olive-branches, “talking of spirit reminds me that you will have to go to work at that leak in the dam with more spirit than usual, for we can’t afford to lose water in this dry weather. It is not finished, I think?”
“No, father, but we hope to get it done this afternoon.”
“That’s well. How many of you are at it?”
“David and I, with six Totties. Old Sam is ill, and none of the others can be spared to-day.”
“Can’t some of your brothers help?” asked the farmer. “Losing water is as bad almost as losing gold.”
“Joseph meant to come, but he started at six this morning to look after the cattle. We hear that the Kafirs carried off some of Jan Smit’s sheep yesterday.”
“The black scoundrels!” exclaimed Conrad Marais, with a growl and a frown, “they are never at rest, either in times of peace or of war.”
The frown passed as quickly as it came, and the genial smile habitual to the farmer resumed its place on his countenance as he ran his fingers through the thick masses of his iron-grey hair, and rose from the table.
“Come, Mr Considine,” he said, putting on his hat, “are you disposed for a ride? I take a look round the farm every morning to see that things are going straight. Will you join me?”
Of course Considine gladly assented, and Hans said he would accompany them, while the other sons—except of course the younger ones, and the baby who was Bertha’s special charge—went out to their various avocations.