“Charlie,” said Conrad Marais, as he walked up and down with his friend, “I must stick by my party, but I can trust you and Hans. You’ll be careful of the women and little ones.”
“You may depend on us,” replied Considine, with emphasis.
“And you needn’t be afraid to speak to Bertha by the way,” said Conrad, with a peculiar side glance.
Charlie looked up quickly with a flush.
“Do you mean, sir, that—that—”
“Of course I do,” cried the stout farmer, grasping his friend by the hand; “I forgive your being an Englishman, Charlie, and as I can’t make you a Dutchman, the next best I can do for you is to give you a Dutch wife, who is in my opinion better and prettier than any English girl that ever lived.”
“Hold!” cried Considine, returning the grasp, “I will not join you in making invidious comparisons between Dutch and English; but I’ll go farther than you, and say that Bertha is in my opinion the best and prettiest girl in the whole world.”
“That’ll do, lad, that’ll do. So, now, we’ll go see what the Totties have managed to toss us up for breakfast.”
Before the sun set that night the emigrant farmers, united with another large band, were entrenched in a temporary stronghold, and the women and children, with the rescue party—strengthened by a company of hunters and traders who had been in the interior when the war broke out, were far on their way back to Fort Wilshire.