“’Long towards the fall the Royal British Artillery grew shy—hung back in their breeching sort of—and their shooting was way—way off. I observed they wasn’t taking any chances, not though I acted kitten almost underneath ’em.
“I mentioned it to Van Zyl, because it struck me I had about knocked their Royal British moral endways.
“‘No,’ says he, rocking as usual on his pony. ‘My Captain Mankeltow he is sick. That is all.’
“‘So’s your Captain Mankeltow’s guns,’ I said. ‘But I’m going to make ’em a heap sicker before he gets well.’
“‘No,’ says Van Zyl. ‘He has had the enteric a little. Now he is better, and he was let out from hospital at Jackhalputs. Ah, that Mankeltow! He always makes me laugh so. I told him—long back—at Colesberg, I had a little home for him at Nooitgedacht. But he would not come—no! He has been sick, and I am sorry.’
“‘How d’you know that?’ I says.
“‘Why, only to-day he sends back his love by Johanna Van der Merwe, that goes to their doctor for her sick baby’s eyes. He sends his love, that Mankeltow, and he tells her tell me he has a little garden of roses all ready for me in the Dutch Indies—Umballa. He is very funny, my Captain Mankeltow.’
“The Dutch and the English ought to fraternise, Sir. They’ve the same notions of humour, to my thinking.’
“‘When he gets well,’ says Van Zyl, ‘you look out, Mr. Americaan. He comes back to his guns next Tuesday. Then they shoot better.’
“I wasn’t so well acquainted with the Royal British Artillery as old man Van Zyl. I knew this Captain Mankeltow by sight, of course, and, considering what sort of a man with the hoe he was, I thought he’d done right well against my Zigler. But nothing epoch-making.