"Jack!"
"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, mother; but if any Boers come here to harm you or Mary, they will have a bad time of it, so long as I can stand on my feet or hold a rifle."
Tears came into gentle Mrs. Lovat's eyes, as she replied, "The war spirit is a dreadful thing, Jack. It seems a crime in this twentieth century for men to be so anxious to imbrue their hands in their fellow-creatures' blood. I am always saying, 'Lord! how long?'"
"Well, all I can say, mother, is that if any Boers try to take Kopje Farm, while I can handle my rifle, they will stand a chance of being winged for their pains," observed Jack. "No Boers come here unless I am disabled and can't stop them. I am going now to tell Pat to saddle up and give a look-out for dad;" and saying this, he strode out of the apartment and walked to where Pat was still standing staring at the road leading to Springbokfontein.
"Pat!"
"Yes, sorr," answered the Irishman, coming to attention; "I'm at your service, sorr."
"Put the saddle on Cawdor and gallop down the road. If you should happen to meet father, you need not say that I sent you. You understand?"
"I know your meaning perfectly well, sorr," replied Pat; and the honest fellow walked to the stables, where he saddled Cawdor, a beautiful Arab, which Mr. Lovat had purchased at Worcester a year before, while on his ostrich-selling peregrinations.
Jack looked attentively at Pat's preparations. The Irishman spent some time in examining the saddlery, paying special attention to the girths, and being apparently satisfied with his inspection, he mounted.
"You have forgotten your rifle," said Jack. "You had better take it with you."