Ruyter slowly rose and staggered away just as Considine came up. The youth could not resist the inclination to exclaim “Shame!”
“Who dares—” cried Jan Smit, turning fiercely round. He paused in mute surprise at sight of his former companion.
“I dare!” said Considine sternly; “many a time the word has been on my lips before, and now that it has passed them it may go. I came not here, however, to bully, or be bullied, but to pay my debt to you.”
He drew out a leathern purse as he spoke, and the Dutchman, whose spirit was quelled both by the manner and the matter of his visitor’s remark, led the way to his domicile.
The house resembled that of Conrad Marais in form, but in nothing else. Everything in and around it was dirty and more or less dilapidated. There was no dam, no garden,—nothing, in short, but the miserable dwelling and a few surrounding huts, with the cattle kraal.
Having paid his debt, Considine did not vouchsafe another word, but returned at once to the waggons. On the way he overtook Ruyter.
“My poor fellow,” he said, “have you no means of redress? Can you not complain to some one—some magistrate?”
“Complain!” exclaimed the Hottentot fiercely, “what de use of complain? No one care. Nobody listen—boh! no use complain.”
The man had learnt a smattering of English. He was a short but very powerful fellow, and with a more intellectual head and countenance than is common to his race.
“Where are you going just now, Ruyter?” asked Considine, feeling that it was best to change the subject just then.