"Yes, I think that is the nigger's name," replied Morton.
To the trooper's great surprise, Jack instantly fired up. "No, that won't do; we don't call our 'boys' niggers. They are our 'boys,' and faithful ones they are, too."
The New Zealander smiled at Jack's impetuosity, and remarked, "A very good trait in your character. Only we have seen so many Kaffirs since we have been in the country that all nice distinctions are washed out, and we call the blacks generally 'niggers,'—not a very gentlemanly expression, I admit."
"Our 'boys' maybe are above the general run," said Jack, "but they are tried and trusty ones. I shall never forget how they volunteered to a man to defend this place, when they might have slunk away. Their fate, too, if captured, they well knew, for they would have been brutally sjambokked and then shot. The boys stood up as good as the best of white men, and I admire them. Poor old Zacchary! Oh, you spoke about the stone my father's native foreman gave me; I will bring it;" and Jack walked across to the house, the New Zealander all the while admiring the stalwart figure of the ostrich farmer's son.
Jack presently returned, and handed the stone to Morton, who carefully examined it with the eye of an expert.
The pebble was about the size of a large hazel nut, with a straw-coloured tint, and Morton twirled it between his finger and thumb for quite a minute before speaking.
"The Colonial cut the cords."
"Do you know what this pebble really is?" he asked. An unusual brightness shone in his eyes as he spoke, and he glanced keenly at Jack.