About four weeks brought my commercial career to a close. The manager and I parted good friends, but he made no secret of his satisfaction at getting rid of me. I was as unskillful in the matter of tying up parcels at the end of my term of service as I was at the beginning. But I had been of some use in the matter of clearing the store of rats. The cat and I had become very good friends; it was quite a wrench parting with that devoted animal. If the progeny, which were expected to arrive soon after I left, only inherited the keenness and skill of their mother, there ought not to have been a rat left, a year afterwards, in the Northern Transvaal.
279
Reminiscences of a
Tom Simpson and his David-like victory over Goliath-Wolff reminds me of another man who was very skilful in the use of his hands. He went by the name of Saulez. I know his real name, but will not mention it, although I am absolutely convinced that its concealment was not due to any unworthy cause. Saulez was young, very slightly built, fair-haired, and almost effeminate in appearance. But he was the wickedest and most wonderful fighter I have ever seen floor a bully. Although he thoroughly enjoyed using his fists, he never sought a quarrel. There were four men in the creek who were always spoiling for a fight. They were rather dreaded, for on Saturday afternoons they used to go from bar to bar, looking for an excuse to thrash somebody. In the natural course of events Saulez met them, and a fight or rather a series of fights was the result. He thrashed them soundly in detail without getting so much as a scratch.
A couple of weeks afterwards, three of the four laid in wait for Saulez and tackled him collectively. He again thrashed them, and with the greatest ease.
On another occasion Saulez struck a man by mistake. He immediately apologized, but the man refused to be placated. Saulez then offered to allow the aggrieved party to strike him, promising not to return the blow. But there was a condition attached: if the man took advantage of the offer Saulez would afterwards "go for" him. The man, who was powerfully built, thought he had the game in his hands, so he hauled off and struck Saulez a terrible blow between the eyes. But he soon had cause to regret his action, for he got a most severe thrashing.
I once saw a very smart thing done by an old Australian digger named Gardiner. He was the one after whom "Gardiner's Point," just below the Middle Camp, was named. One afternoon he appeared at the Lower Camp with a barrow, a pick, a shovel, a pan, and four pegs. The latter he gravely hammered into the ground, enclosing a square with sides of a hundred and fifty feet. In the middle of this stood the local branch of the Natal Bank. Gardiner then entered the bank and gave notice to the manager to remove the building, as the site was required for mining purposes. This proceeding was strictly in accordance with the Mining Law. The person giving notice in such a case would, of course, be obliged to pay the expenses of removal.
Before the manager had time to recover from his surprise, Gardiner went to a spot on the right-hand side of the steps leading to the bank entrance, loosened a couple of square yards of the surface ground, shoveled it into his barrow, and trundled the latter down to the nearest part of the creek. After a short time he returned and informed the manager that, as he had changed his mind, the bank need not be shifted. Then he pulled out his pegs. Here is the explanation: Most of the creek gold was crusted with flakes of ironstone, so that when nuggets were brought to the bank for sale, they used to be placed in a large iron mortar and pounded. The pounding was done by a native always at the spot from which Gardiner removed the surface ground. This practice had been followed for a very long time, and Gardiner inferred that small particles of gold must have escaped from time to time under the loose cover of the mortar and through the central hole in which the pestle worked. The amount of the "wash up" was three and a half ounces.
Quite a large number of the diggers were known by nicknames; in most instances these quite superseded the original patronymics. Most men who knew the Transvaal thirty years ago will remember "Count" Nelmapius. The title was subsequently dropped, but for years it was used, and apparently enjoyed, by the holder. It may be of interest if I describe how the patent of nobility came to be conferred in this case. The thing happened at Mac Mac, in a hostel known as "The Spotted Dog," which was run by old Tommy Austin. Half a dozen diggers were lounging in the bar. Quoth one "I hear a new chum's turned up today."
"So. What's his name?"