“Another time don’t be so devilish smart with your tongue,” said Wilson. “I ain’t the one to cast a man’s misfortunes in his teeth, but, all the same, it’s best for a man like you to lie low.”
“What the devil are you talking of?” said Joyce, fiercely.
“What’s the good of bluff? You’ve given yourself away heaps of times.”
“I insist upon knowing what you mean,” said Joyce.
How could this man have learned his history? Noakes could not have betrayed him. For the honour of his dead comrade he could not let the matter drop. Wilson tilted back his chair and squirted a stream of tobacco-juice over the floor, which aroused the indignation of the Boer woman, who was sitting on some sacks near the door, peeling potatoes. Her lord was a beastly Englander, and a great many other undesirable things. Wilson, who had not yet laced his heavy boots, took one off to throw at her head, but Joyce caught his arm.
“What a brute you are!” he said angrily.
Wilson broke into a laugh.
“You’d better thank Mr. Joyce for saving your beauty from being damaged,” he said, pulling on the boot again.
“Now,” said Joyce, as soon as domestic peace was restored, “tell me what you meant just now.”
Wilson rose, went to the door and ostentatiously spat over the Boer woman’s head; then he turned round to Joyce:—