“Come, children, let us go and drink some coffee,” said Old Schalk as he led the way, assisted by a stalwart Boer, to the cart which had conveyed him from his camp to the nearest available point.
As the others followed in small groups Oom Schulpad heard one young Boer say to another—
“Got, kerel, maar Koos hat die ou’ Boschmann lekker geskop.”
(God, old fellow, but Koos kicked the old Bushman nicely.)
Oom Schulpad gave a sardonic grin which might have been expressive of anything, from rapture to nausea, and turned back to where Max was sitting fuming with indignation and grief. He laid a sympathetic hand upon the boy’s shoulder and bent his rough face, which now bore a kindly expression, over him.
“Never mind, child,” he said, “the poor old schepsel is not going to suffer any more pain. Who knows but he may be with the old woman now, and she, perhaps, may have got a new pair of legs.”
“But the man has been murdered,” replied Max hotly, “and he wants to screen the murderer—”
“Shush, shush. Young tongues gallop into dangerous places. What good can you do by making a disturbance? You won’t bring the old Bushman to life again, and it would be a bad thing for him if you could. Besides, a man must never try to set the world right all by himself.”
“But he wouldn’t hear what I had to say. I shall let the Government know what sort of a Field Cornet he is.”
“And get nothing for your pains except the hatred of every one about here. What does the Government care? It only wants not to be troubled about things. When you are as old as I am you will not be put out by anything done by people like Old Schalk.”