LIFE IN AFRIKANDERLAND

LIFE IN AFRIKANDERLAND
AS VIEWED BY AN AFRIKANDER
A Story of Life in South Africa, based on Truth
BY
“CIOS”

LONDON
DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS
18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1897

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

In all times of stress and struggle, it is not from our friends and supporters, but from our enemies and opponents, that we receive the best and most practical instruction. If an evil or a peril exist, it is surely best to know it; and if serious treason be hatching in dark places, publicity may easily rob it of its main strength and neutralise its virulence. Further, in order to rightly understand racial conflicts—of all the most bitter—we must put ourselves in our adversary’s place in order to arrive at just conclusions. We are quite aware that in issuing this uncompromising attack upon British supremacy in South Africa the writer is viewing everything from an entirely anti-English standpoint, but surely it is of great practical importance that we should be accurately informed as to the way in which our adversaries regard us. More practical instruction can be obtained thus than in any other manner. The intense hostility of the writer to England is manifest, and a perusal of these pages is calculated to be of real service to those to whom, as to ourselves, the solidarity and permanence of the British Empire is a primary consideration.

Dedication

To my mother do i dedicate this work, who, i am sure, had she lived to read it, would have approved the sentiments expressed herein, and would have thoroughly sympathised with the earnest object for which this work has been written, viz., the ultimate triumph of TRUTH.

CIOS.

PREFACE

To the Reader,

Gentle Reader, I have written this story in the English language—a language learned by me, as a foreign language, for the chief purpose of placing before the English reading public a true and faithful version of the character and life of an Afrikander. So many libels and false stories have of late been spread in England and all over the world about the Boers by enemies of the people inhabiting the Colonies and States of South Africa, that I could not resist the temptation to write something in which the truth and nothing but the truth would be told. I have made the attempt; whether it is to be successful or not, the reading public must decide.

In this story there is no plot (excepting the Great Complot). It is simply a story of everyday life, with little or no embellishment. Yet I trust the reader, in lands far away as well as those living here in my own beloved native land, will find sufficient to interest him to lead him on to the end of the book. At the least, there was subject-matter enough to write about without going out of the paths of Truth. My only difficulty was not to be led away by my subject and make this work too large for a first attempt in literature.

The incidents and adventures related, as well as anecdotes by old Burghers of the South African Republic, are all based upon truth, and were learned by the writer from the parties themselves. The sad death by lightning of poor Daniel is true, word for word, even to the premonition he had of his death, and occurred only as late as the beginning of this year (1896); and many will recognise the family as described by the writer.

The writer has mostly made use of Christian names, as all the characters used in this story are real and living; and it would serve no purpose to publish real names, while substituted names would only be misleading. Where politics have been drawn into the story, the reader may rely upon the truth only having been told of events, as well as prevailing opinions as expressed by representatives of the different parties. The latter part of the book is largely devoted to the events of the New Year (1896) which occurred near Krugersdorp, Johannesburg and Pretoria, and its results as gathered by one who took note of everything on the spot, and may be relied upon as being true in every detail. If I have succeeded in convincing a portion of the public of the truth, I shall rest well satisfied.

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS

LIFE IN AFRIKANDERLAND
BOOK I

CHAPTER I
A DEATH-BED SCENE

A death-bed is always a sad scene, but doubly so when it is that of a parent surrounded by his or her children, and trebly so when those children are young and helpless.

Let me introduce the reader to such a scene for a moment, for ’tis good now and again to be drawn near to death, if only for a moment, for it brings us face to face with the fleeting and uncertain nature of life, and admonishes us to be prepared.

Behold, then, a pale weak figure, in a white draped, old-fashioned, four-post bed; that figure is the figure of a dying man, that man the father of three children, a boy and two girls, who are standing around the bed clinging to their mother.

‘But if father is going away, where is he going to, mother?’ said the boy, the eldest of the three. Alas! he did not realise what was taking place. He had been told that his father was going away; but he could not realise that he would see him no more on earth, and that he would be left alone to fight the battle of life, with only a poor, poverty-stricken mother to stand between him and starvation.

‘Dear Stephen, he is going to heaven. God has called him and he must go.’

‘But may we not go with him, mother?’

‘No, my child, we may not go till God calls us.’

‘But when will He call us, mother?’

‘I do not know, dear; we must be prepared to go whenever He calls; it may be to-morrow, or it may not be for years.’

‘But when shall we see father again, mother?’

‘When God calls us to heaven, too, dear.’

‘Come near, Stephen,’ his father called to him in weak and trembling tones. ‘Steve, my son, I want to say a few words to you before I leave you. First I want you to take care of your mother and sisters as much as you can. Your mother will be weak and unprotected, and when you are grown up, you must work and support her and your sisters as best you can. Then I want you to promise to always fear God and look to Him for aid in time of need, and serve Him to the best of your ability in time of prosperity. And lastly, I want you always to be faithful to your country and your people. Remember that here we are a vassal race as yet. But thank God there are two bright spots in South Africa where our people are free, and acknowledge only one King—God—the King of kings. And if ever the time should come that you may be able to aid in bringing our people nearer to being a one and united people—free—under God’s guidance, do your best. Do you promise?’

‘Yes, father, I will do my best.’

‘I know, child, you can hardly understand these things yet, but when you are older you will understand what I mean. Your mother will write my request down for you, and when you are grown up and are a man, you will understand. Now kiss me all of you. May God bless you and be a father to you all. Amen.’

CHAPTER II
BOYHOOD

Seven years have passed, our young hero has grown considerably. He is now twelve years of age. Behold him once more. He is kneeling near to his mother and sisters. The mother is praying. ‘Oh, God,’ she prays,‘have mercy on our dear people. Oh, Jesus, they are of our blood and our race, and they have done no wrong as a people. Oh, Christ, they have fled into the wilderness to worship Thee in quiet and in peace. Oh, God, they have done naught but they have done it in Thy name. Oh, Lord, they have struggled against famine and troubles untold. Oh, Jesus, they have bled and fought against the heathen and Thou hast always succoured them. When death faced them Thou saved them and said, “Live, and be a people.” Oh, God, Thou wilt surely not desert them now. Lord aid, even though victory seems impossible to human minds. Thou art the God of battles, and to Thee all things are possible. Oh, Lord, in Thee do we and they trust, now and evermore. Amen.’

They rise, and Steve goes up to his mother and stands leaning fondly against her.

It is January 1881. It is the time of the Transvaal struggle for independence and freedom.

Daily alarming telegrams arrive, and tear the hearts of relatives and friends of the poor struggling immigrants in the Transvaal. The killed and wounded of the Boers are always given in hundreds. We now know how lying these telegrams were. But the friends of the Boers did not then know what was true or not.

Steve nestled near to his mother and said,—

‘But, mother, cannot we go and help our people in the Transvaal? Surely it is not so far away but we can reach them, and fight by their side? And,’ drawing himself up to his full height, ‘if needs be, we can die with them.’

‘My dear, you are far too young to talk about fighting and dying in battle; but it is impossible, even if you were old enough, to do so. There is many and many a heart here that beats in unison with our race, fighting for freedom in the Transvaal, and would gladly take up arms for them. But, alas, we are bound hand and foot, and are surrounded by the enemy. We cannot leave here a day’s march, but the English Goverment will stop our people from going to help their friends in the Transvaal. We are surrounded by enemies. No, child, we can only pray and trust in God.’

‘And will God help them if we pray for them, mother?’

‘Yes, child, for their cause is just, and God always helps in a righteous cause.’

CHAPTER III
A CONTROVERSY

‘Steve, you are talking nonsense.’

A group of boys were standing talking, warmly arguing about the all-absorbing topic of the day—the Transvaal war.

‘I should like to know why I talk nonsense more than you?’

‘Why, you say that the Transvaal Boers can fight against England and win. I should like to know how a few Boers can fight against England, when we have already more soldiers on the Transvaal border than there are Boers to fight, and there are as many more coming out from England, with ever so many cannon. And when these arrive, what will your Boers do then? You are talking nonsense, I say!’

‘I am not talking nonsense, for mother says that, if we pray to God to help our people, He will surely do so, and then they will win; for God is stronger than England and all the world besides.’

Steve’s opponent smiled derisively, as if he thought Steve was talking nonsense worse than ever—as if people could swallow such childish superstitions in the latter end of the nineteenth century, that God fights the battles of nations; these things are too antiquated! But, thought he to himself, I might as well fight it out with him on his own ground, and with his own weapons, so he said,—

‘But, Steve, the English people will also pray; and why do you think God would answer your people’s prayers more than the prayers of the English?’

‘Because God only answers our prayers when we pray for a righteous thing; and our people’s cause is righteous; the cause of the English is unrighteous, for they seek to oppress a weaker people than themselves, who have done them no harm.’

Steve’s simple faith in his mother’s teachings and in the promises of his God, had given him the victory in this schoolboy controversy. His opponent could only smile in a depreciating sort of way and walk off.

CHAPTER IV
INDEPENDENCE GAINED ONCE MORE—YOUTHFUL PATRIOTISM

Those were anxious times for all true South Africans—the time of the Transvaal war of independence. At first, nothing but cooked telegrams came, which made out that the Boers wherever met were being defeated. But later the truth leaked out, as it is ever bound to do, viz., that the Boers were wondrously victorious in every battle that had been fought. The accounts of Bronkorstspruit, Laingsnek and Schuimhoogte were received with mixed feelings in the town of G——n, in the Cape Colony, where Steve and his mother lived. Mixed, in that they were received by all Afrikanders and Republicans with joy and thanksgivings to Him, to Whom alone they ascribed the victory of their brethren; but with anger and almost with unbelief by the Imperialists. They could not believe it, for how was it possible for those cowardly (?) Boers (who, it had been predicted, would run away at the first cannon shot), to defeat the thoroughly armed and disciplined troops of England, why it is impossible! They believed that such simple faith as Steve’s was childishness. But what was their consternation when the disastrous news—to them—of Amajuba came, capped by the tidings that peace had been concluded favourably to the Boers. They called shame on England for at last recognising the injustice that they were perpetrating on a quiet and peace-loving people.

Public opinion in England, and all over the world, had shown the Imperial Government the error of their ways at last. They had to make peace after being defeated, and promise the Boers their independence back again. But the Imperial Government seemed to say, ‘Never mind the defeat and shame, we will show the Boers a trick or two yet. We will appoint a Royal Commission, and force a convention on the Boers to our own liking, and they shall feel the Lion’s paw in another way.’

Yes, England was magnanimous (?) enough to give (?) the Boers their independence back, but not the independence that had been taken from them.

Oh, no, English diplomats are not such fools! They took gold from the Boers; they gave them brass in exchange. They took their independence, independence in every sense of the word, from them; independence without conditions, such as was recognised by the Sand River Convention, but they gave back a false municipal independence, only a shadow of the independence possessed before.

‘Bah!’ thought these English diplomats, ‘how will these ignorant Boers know the difference?’ Alas, England, England, where was thy boasted honour and magnanimity then? Thou protector of the weak and injured, remember there is a God, Who weighs the nations, as well as individuals; and the time may arrive, when thou mayest see that dread hand-writing on the wall with those fatal words, ‘Mene, mene, Tekel, Upharsin,—Thou hast been weighed, and thou hast been found wanting, and thou shalt be swept from off the face of the earth. Stop—before it is too late, and use the power and wealth that God has granted thee, to a better purpose than that of enslaving and oppressing a weaker people.’

’Twas a glad day for Steve when he stopped before the notice board of the local paper one day and read the news of the Transvaal victory at Amajuba, and that peace and freedom were promised to the people of his father. He ran joyfully to his mother and cried out, ‘Mother, mother, God has heard our prayers, the Transvaal has won, and our people are Free.’

‘Is that true, my son?’

‘Yes, mother, I have just seen it on the notice board,’ and then Steve told her all he had read on the board.

His mother, God-fearing and grateful, made him kneel at her side, and poured out praises and thanksgivings to God Almighty, Who had thus wrought a miracle to save His people.

Does England realise that the Boers are a God-fearing people, who have never heard of materialism, Atheism and other blaspheming isms? still less do they believe in such. No, they believe simply, and with the faith of a child in God and His word:—‘If your faith is no larger than a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say to that mountain “Go,” and it shall go, “Come,” and it shall come.’ The Boers had faith, and they moved not mountains, but they moved—England.

While the war was still going on, and the ultimate end of the war was yet uncertain, Steve, to show his patriotism, and to prove that he was not ashamed to be called a Boer (which name was generally used by the English as a name of contempt and reproach), got up an association amongst all his young Afrikander friends. In this association there was only one rule, and this rule was, that no member was to speak to another member without using as a name of endearment the name ‘Boer.’ Each one was to be honoured when addressed by another member by being called ‘Boer’; and for some time the English schoolmates of these young patriots were surprised to hear remarks such as these, ‘Hillo, “Boer,” are you going for a swim this afternoon,’ or, ‘I say, “Boer,” let us go and have a feed of grapes at Tante (auntie) Sannie this evening.’ And even to this day, when these young men are grown up and are scattered over the country, when corresponding with each other, they are in the habit of beginning their letters in this way,—

‘My dear old Boer. I received your last letter,’ etc., and they have lived to see the name of Boers not only not to signify shame any longer, but to be honoured by friends and foes.

Steve was over jealous of the good name of his people, and lost no opportunity to stand up for them.

Our young hero had one staunch English friend, that is English in that his parents were English, but he was Afrikander born, and he was an Afrikander at heart. He was named Gus Turner. These two young friends were standing together amongst a group of other boys one day arguing on politics as usual. Why shouldn’t they?—their parents talked nothing else all day.

A young man named Jim M’Murphy was speaking sneeringly. He was strongly built, and considerably larger than Steve. He was saying,—

‘It is all humbug these Boers having beaten our soldiers. They are all cowards!’

‘You lie!’ cried Steve in his anger; and before he knew what was going to take place, he was sprawling on the ground, with a bloody nose from an unexpected blow. But Steve was not the boy to accept punishment unreturned, so he jumped up and hit his assailant on the eye, which spoilt the sight of that eye for a day or two.

‘Well done, Steve,’ cried Gus; ‘do it again.’

But he had no time to do it again, for at that moment one of the teachers appeared on the scene and put a stop to further fighting. But M’Murphy had not done with him yet; a black eye was not to be taken tamely by an Englishman from a Boer!

That night, when Steve went home from the evening preparation class at school, he was surprised to see a crowd of street arabs outside the school door. These youngsters were composed of Kaffirs, Hottentots, and bastards of all colours. To explain their presence, we must state that M’Murphy’s father kept a grocery store; among other good things, he retailed sugar sticks. Jim M’Murphy was his fathers’ assistant when not in school, and thus had full access to his father’s stock of sugar sticks, and he used these sugar sticks as payment to his regiment of young ragamuffins, who were to assist him in having his revenge on Steve for the black eye given him. What he really intended doing with Steve, when he had captured him, has never been revealed; but as soon as Steve had walked a few paces from the school door, pushing his way through the crowd with the assistance of Gus Turner, and wondering what in the world was up to call such a crowd together, he felt his jacket pulled violently from behind and heard M’Murphy’s voice calling out,—

‘Here he is.’ In a moment two or three more had hold of him before he knew any evil was intended him. But when he saw how the wind lay, he wrenched his arms free and struck out right and left, always seconded by Gus Turner, who stuck to his friend like a man. But although Steve’s arms were now free, M’Murphy still had hold of his jacket, and he could not reach behind himself to strike at the coward behind his back. But he was not at a loss yet. He spun round and round as fast as he could, and here was M’Murphy revolving round him, standing straight out behind Steve’s back, somewhat like the snake that had hold of Paddy’s clothing when Paddy was running round the house.

Going round at the speed that Steve was spinning, even M’Murphy had to let go! and the sudden cessation from his circular motion caused him to lose his balance, and sent him squirming on the ground. M’Murphy’s army was now closing up to take Steve and his companion prisoners by force of numbers, when the teacher once more appeared on the scene, being attracted by the noise, and scattered M’Murphy’s army (like chaff before the wind) with his great knobby stick.

Steve and Gus took advantage of this diversion in their favour to clear round the first corner, but soon found the whole crowd on their track once more. There was nothing for it now but to run to avoid being captured. But the enemy could run too, and half-a-dozen of the best runners amongst the enemy were soon overtaking the two fugitives. The foremost one was just laying hold of Steve’s coat, when Gus Turner dropped down right in front of him, tripped him, and sent him head over heels to the ground, and two more of the enemy, being just behind, followed suit. But Gus was up again in a moment, and once more he and Steve ran for it. Gaining a good few paces by the confusion caused by the tripped enemy, Gus Turner’s home, which was the nearest, was soon reached. Once protected by the shadow of his castle, and sure of a safe retreat, the two fugitives stood at bay, and taking out their catapults, a boy’s most offensive weapon, sent a shower of buckshot into the ranks of the approaching enemy, who first halted in a crowd at a short distance, but finding themselves thus bombarded by the hidden battery of the two boys standing in the dark shadow, the enemy soon scattered and dispersed, leaving Gus and Steve in possession of the battlefield.

CHAPTER V
YOUTHFUL PRANKS

It is not our purpose to give a full history of the boyhood of our hero. We would rather hurry on to give an account of his life as a man. But we hope our readers will not think it tedious, if we give an episode or two of his boyhood’s life, which will enable the reader the better to understand and sympathise with him in his aspirations and ambitions.

Steve was by no means a paragon of goodness at all times—no boy ever is. He loved mischief as much as any other boy. We do not believe in the perfect hero. Every boy and man, as well as girl and woman, has his or her faults. Steve’s greatest fault was a keen sense of the ludicrous, which often led him into mischief; besides he loved mischief for its own sweet sake. He, one night, nearly had to sleep in the lock-up through his mischievous pranks. He and a companion, thinking it a pity not to make the best use of a fine moonlight night, proceeded to prepare for a game of snake. To the reader, who has never had the pleasure and excitement to play snake, I will explain how it is done.

A dark coloured strip of cloth is obtained in the shape and size of a fine large healthy snake. To one end of this artificial snake the end of a thin and almost invisible string is tied. The longer the string the safer the operation is.

Well, Steve and his companion manufactured just such a snake. They laid the snake on one side of the street in the regulation way. That is in the shape a snake is supposed to delight in assuming, viz., curled up in a zigzag form. Then they took the further end of the string to the opposite side of the street, crept through a hole in the hedge, taking their end of the string with them, and watched their opportunity. Presently a man came down the street, walking jauntily along as if he feared neither man nor devil; but as soon as he is in a line with the snake the fun commences. The first thing our peaceful citizen is aware of is a snake entangled with, and curling between, his legs, in a most lively fashion (operated by the string of course). Who is going to fight a snake of such a size in the uncertain moonlight, and unarmed too? Not he! no fear! So the only result was a yell, a whoop, and a mighty jump, and our peaceful citizen disappears round the first corner with long record-beating strides, leaving the destruction of the snake to the next comer. Of course, as soon as the victim is out of earshot, Steve and his companion are holding their sides, laughing at the jolly fun. The snake is soon replaced and the fun recommences. After sundry victims had afforded copious fun to the mischievous operators, they began to think it rather slow waiting for customers, so they started walking up the street in search of the slow-coming victims. The fun was lively and brisk for some time, but they reached the summit of their enjoyment when they frightened a troop of servant girls, accompanied by their beaux, out for a walk. The troop scattered all over the street, howling, yelling and screaming, fit to wake the dead. They did wake someone from his sleep, who was not quite dead yet—the night watchman. Now this night watchman was not a bird to be caught by chaff twice. He had seen this trick before. He caught up the snake, and, following the line up, soon came to the hiding youths. But if he thought that he was going to gain promotion by catching these night-birds he was mightily mistaken, for these slippery gents crushed their way through the hedge lining the street into a garden, and climbing hedge after hedge, from one garden into the other, until they came to another street, easily escaped, and walked quietly home, minus their snake, which had fallen into the hands of the watchman. Of course this spice of danger made the fun all the greater.

Steve and his friends had one grand playground. It was on the edge of the town on the river bank. There they would congregate of an afternoon and indulge in all the different kinds of games dear to a boy’s heart. Steve was one of the youngest of the boys who met here, and therefore was not as yet initiated into all the crafts of the band. One night, while playing cricket at this spot, Steve’s cousin and namesake—a boy easily led astray and into mischief, vacillating and weak principled, of which more will be seen further on—came to him, and, after leading him on one side, said in English (which, the reader must understand, is a foreign language to Steve, his mother’s tongue being Dutch, or rather Afrikander, and he was only just beginning to learn English at school).

‘I say, Steve, do you want to smoke?’

‘Smoke? Smoke? What is that?’

‘Rook, rook!’ replied his cousin.

‘Oh, rook! I don’t know. Is it nice?’

‘Oh, yes; come and try.’

Of course the policy of his elder companions in asking Steve to join them was to make him participate in their stealthy practice, and thus incriminate him, to prevent him from getting them into trouble by telling anyone about it, by which means their parents might come to hear of it, which, of course, would mean severe punishment to them. Steve’s cousin led him into a dense bush on the river bank, which he had never explored as yet, therefore he was surprised to see his cousin part the bushes and lead him into a large but thoroughly concealed opening among the bushes. The overhanging branches made it a nearly rainproof retreat. Here Steve found about half-a-dozen members of the secret smoking club. After a look round, our hero was offered a smoke, which he accepted, and was soon puffing away at—what does the uninitiated reader think?—a piece of ratan, which was one of the first stages in learning the art of smoking in this particular band; the porous wood of the ratan, or cane, serving as a good conductor of the smoke from the burning end. Of the whole band gathered here, only one was advanced enough to indulge in the real article, viz., tobacco; the rest were all smoking one, or another, of the different substitutes for tobacco known to the rising generation. I suppose the manly reader who has been brought up in a proper and an enlightened manner has learned to smoke with the usual cigarette, made up of Turkish, or mixed tobacco. But these youths, sons of more or less poor parents, being allowed no pocket money, had to satisfy themselves with the best substitutes for tobacco they could discover; and they showed a rare genius in discovering different cheap articles to serve their purpose, amongst which were such things as pumpkin stalk, cane, leaves of various trees, and various similar rubbish. All this is vulgar is it not? Yet I can assure you it is not as bad as it sounds. It produces plenty of the chief thing desired—smoke!

But to resume. Steve did not remain satisfied for many days with these insipid and weak substitutes; so when his cousin, who was the only one who smoked tobacco regularly, offered to allow him a few puffs at the real thing, he accepted readily enough, and smoked like all novices generally do, viz., smoked as if his life depended upon his finishing the pipe as fast as possible. All went well until he had finished the pipe, for while he was yet smoking, he had thought it not at all as nasty as it had been described to him. But when he had put the pipe down (which was made of two joints of reeds, one about an inch in diameter serving as the bowl, and another one with a tiny opening serving as the stem) he began to feel the effects. He felt as if the world were whirling round and round on purpose to make him sick. He made his way to some water the best way he could, plunged his head therein and washed out his mouth, but nothing would take away that awful feeling which most readers who are also smokers know to be the effect of the first pipe of tobacco. It was only after having lain down on the grass for an hour or so, with closed eyes, vowing innumerable vows never to touch tobacco again, that he got well enough to go home, amid the teasings and jokes of his companions. But I must state here that Steve did not keep his vow never to touch tobacco again. Who does not make these vows when learning to smoke, and who does not break them? Steve tried again and again, and after having broken his pipe and renewed his vow not to smoke again for some dozen times, he succeeded at last in smoking without getting sick, and to-day he can smoke his pipe against any man.

CHAPTER VI
A CHARACTER SKETCH OF OUR HERO

Steve was not fond of school. He liked studying and learning, but he wanted to select his own studies, and hated to be forced to learn what he did not wish to study. He was passionately fond of books, with hardly any distinction. He would never allow a book to pass out of his hand without first reading it, if he could help it. If he got hold of a book he would read it. If he had no time, he would make time. While walking in the street, he would be holding the book in front of his nose, while carefully feeling his steps, or while taking his hurried meals, or when other people were soundly sleeping at night, and even in school he would find time to read; and read books, too, which no teacher of any self-respect would have tolerated. But what did Steve care for the opinion of his teacher as to what books he should read? A book was a book to him, to be used and to be made the most of possible. He would smuggle the book into school under his coat, and while his teacher was thinking that Steve was studying his lessons most diligently, that young man would be deeply interested in some book of travels, or something of the kind. Not that Steve did not learn his lessons. He did learn them, but it did not take him long to do so; reading his task over once or twice was quite sufficient for him to know as much of it as he cared to know. His object was not to be at the top of his class. No, his nature was too retiring to allow him to render himself as conspicuous as all that. If he did happen to come up top by accident, he made his way down to the bottom again as fast as he could. His friend, Gus Turner, was also fond of being at the bottom of the class, but not from choice, but perforce because his mental abilities did not allow him to get up higher, and he always did his best to keep Steve near him, for he found Steve useful to prompt him when his own knowledge of questions asked, failed him. Steve always obliged his friend as best he could, both in supplying answers as well as in keeping near him at the bottom of the class. One day he was caught in the act. The teacher had come down with a question right from the top of the class, and no one could answer the question asked, until he had come to Steve, who thoughtlessly answered it correctly. ‘Go up top,’ said the teacher. But Steve quietly kept his seat. He was not going to leave his friend at the bottom while he went to the top! The teacher soon noticed this, and asked him why he did not go up. He replied that he did not care to do so. ‘Go to the bottom then,’ commanded the angry teacher. Steve did so. What did he care? His friend was at the bottom; he had been just above him, now he was just below him. What difference did it make?

I have said that Steve was fond of reading; he was also fond of thinking—day-dreaming. His great delight was, when he had the time for it, as on Sundays, for instance, to go out for a walk into the veld, and find a shady grassy spot on which to lie on his back, looking up into the sky, to think—think about all sorts of things, past, present, and future. He did not fear to try and think out problems which had puzzled greater and more matured brains than his. There was one great mystery to which his thoughts generally would come back again and again. He could generally find some solution to all questions that cropped up, but this particular one would not be solved, turn it over as he would. This mystery was—Space.

CHAPTER VII
THOUGHTS AND FLOWERS

While thus lying on his back, gazing up into the bright South African sky, with the sun seemingly floating as an atom in all the immensity of space; and the sun he had learned in his books was ever so many times larger than our earth, and yet it seemed only a speck in space. ‘Space, space, what is space? Where does it begin? Where does it end?’ And then he would fly on in imagination from world to world, from star to star, from sun to sun, but his imagination could not find even a probable ending for space. He had never read anything on the subject to help him. He had never read any book in which he had seen what others thought of the subject, so he had to puzzle his own poor brain, eternally thinking, thinking ever on it. Surely, SURELY there must be some answer to this problem. Surely there MUST be a beginning to space as well as an end, otherwise how can it be, and yet it cannot have beginning or end. He felt as if he should get mad trying to think it out; and when he got so far as to feel his brain reeling in endeavouring to pierce beyond the mystery of space, he would jump up and shout and laugh, and run about looking for his favourite wild flowers in order to forget this maddening thought, but it would come back to him whenever he was alone and thinking.

Speaking about flowers—that was another of his passions. He was never so happy as when tending his few flowers. He was famous for the beauty of the wild flowers he generally gathered in the mountains when he had time. He used to think a half-holiday well spent if he could take a walk into the mountains to gather a beautiful bouquet of his favourite wild flowers. As has been suggested before, he was of a retiring nature, and greatly disliked crowds. At any festival in town, when everybody, including his own family, would all eagerly gather together to enjoy themselves by seeing and being seen, he would rather go for a walk in the veld, where his thoughts were his only company—and good company he always found them. Or he would find a comfortable nook and read a book, during which occupation he would forget the rest of the world and be happy.

CHAPTER VIII
STEP-CHILDREN

Steve’s mother had married again a few years after his father’s death. She would have preferred remaining unmarried, as she considered it would have been more faithful to the memory of her dead husband; but she found herself too poor to educate her children unaided, and bring them up as she would like to do. It was not a happy marriage, which is usually the case where there are step-children to cause jealousy—the more so when the step-parent is not of the best-natured and gentlest character. Steve’s stepfather respected and, in his way, loved his wife; but he disliked Steve, because that youngster was a manly and proud little fellow, and rebelled against his stepfather when the latter treated him unjustly, or ill-treated his little sisters: which his stepfather often did, more out of spite to Steve than from any other reason.

He used to make Steve work (out of school hours) in the garden, chop wood, carry water, and, in fact, he invented work for the poor boy if there was no work really wanting to be done. Poor Steve did all this most patiently and dutifully, even though he lost his play hours; for he did not really care much for the usual boyish games of his companions. All he cared for was to secure a candle end to read his beloved books by at night, when everybody else was sleeping, or to take his walk into the veld on Sundays, after church time. Amidst the beauties of Nature, which he loved with the love of a true child of Nature, he was happy. He was patient and enduring amidst the petty persecutions of his stepfather, for his mother’s sake, while it only concerned himself. He did not even complain when his stepfather one day found him stealing a glimpse into a new book which he had borrowed from a friend and cruelly took it from him and cast it into the fire. His stepfather could not have done him greater personal injury if he had tried for a month to find the way. But Steve took it quietly and patiently, even though it was a borrowed book and it would take some of his few most-treasured books to satisfy his friend from whom he had borrowed the volume. Steve was accustomed to these daily persecutions from his stepfather.

But there were times when even his stepfather was awed into fear of him—that was when Steve considered his sisters ill-treated. To give an instance.

Steve’s mother had a son by her second husband, seven years old at this time—a child who, perhaps, would have been a good boy if he had been left to his mother’s care and training. But his father utterly spoiled him by giving him his desires and wishes unstinted, no matter at what sacrifice or how foolish those wishes were. If it was the most precious article belonging to his stepbrother or sisters, if he asked for it, he was to have it. Steve had long rebelled against this, especially on behalf of his sisters, but always to no effect. In fact, he made himself only the more hated by his stepfather. He did not dislike his little half-brother; he wished to treat and love him as his mother’s child, but the child’s father made this an impossibility for Steve, through his continual injustice. The result was that the boy was perfectly spoiled, and, whenever he saw his brother or sisters have anything new, he used to cry for it until his father made them give it up to him.

One evening the whole family was sitting round the table, waiting for evening prayers, at which the mother always insisted that everyone should be present. Steve’s sister, Dora, had that day secured at school a pretty little picture book; she was sitting looking at this when her little stepbrother, who was sitting next to her, snatched at the book and tore a leaf. She, of course, pulled the book away from him, which made the spoiled child set up a fearful howling. His father got up and gave poor, innocent little Dora a severe slap on the cheek, which made the poor child turn blue from pain in a moment. Steve could not stand this. He was now sixteen years of age, and could not quietly see his little sister treated in such a cruel and unjust way.

He rose, pale from anger, and, striking his fist on the table, which made the different articles thereon jump again, said in a voice hard and firm,—

‘By God, if you strike my sister again in that way, I shall kill you. Do you hear?’ And his voice sounded and his expression looked so threatening, that the coward (all blusterers are cowards) felt awed and afraid. He had not the courage to brave Steve in his anger. He looked down and did not say a word more.

CHAPTER IX
FAVOURITE HEROES

When Steve was fifteen years of age he was taken from school and placed in an office at a small—very small—salary.

His education was not completed yet by far. He could read well, write fairly well, of arithmetic he knew sufficient for the ordinary wants of business life; his grammar was only sufficient to help him to speak English fairly correctly, with a mistake only once in a while. In orthography he was proficient enough to write a fairly well spelled letter. In history he excelled—that was his favourite study, no matter whose history it was. Bible, secular, English, Dutch, Italian, but especially South African, French and American history, he studied; the latter two because they were Republics, for he was a thorough Republican, and wished to know everything about Republicanism.

He loved to read the story of Napoleon. He gloried in Napoleon’s genius, in his wonderful victories. But he grieved over the follies of the Emperor. The General Bonaparte, even the first Consul was his admiration—but the Emperor was a monster to him. He could not understand that a man, who had displayed such wonderful genius as Napoleon had done, could make such foolish mistakes as Napoleon had made as Emperor. He could not understand that such a man should care for the empty pomps and vanities of a throne. To his mind Napoleon would have been a greater man by far if he had remained only a Consul or President of the French Republic. Why a man who had done what he had done for France, and who had striven to the end to live and work only for the people, who wished to live for posterity as a man who had won the hearts of his people (such a man would be nobler and grander by far than one like Napoleon proved in the end) had only used his country and people to work for his own glory and vanity, puzzled Steve.

On the other hand, he considered George Washington by far a greater and nobler man than Napoleon. For Washington had lived and fought only for his country, and had proved to be nobly unselfish to the end. The States, in his opinion, really did “lick creation” as a great and free country.

The history of his own country he simply devoured. He never lost an opportunity of getting hold of a book which treated in any way of South Africa. If the book spoke favourably of his country and people, he was pleased and happy. If the book libelled his country—as so many books really do—he was grieved, but treated it with the contempt it deserved, and took his revenge by extracting any information he found in it.

CHAPTER X
OUT OF SCHOOL

As we stated in the last chapter, Steve was taken from school before his education was at all fairly completed and placed in an office. This was done against the wishes of his mother; but his stepfather said he could not have him eating the roof off the house and live a lazy, good-for-nothing life any longer—he must work and earn his living.

William Waitz (which was the name of Steve’s stepfather) wanted to make a mechanic of the poor boy, but his mother, who understood his nature, would not allow this. She knew this was altogether against the wishes and abilities of her son, and she insisted that he should be placed in an office. Her influence—and a good woman’s influence, even on a bad man, always makes itself felt—gained for Steve the victory, and he was not placed with a mechanic, which he would have hated. He desired opportunities to improve himself mentally, and how could he improve himself so as a mason or brick-layer?

Steve knew his education was by no means complete, but he did not mind leaving school, for he ardently desired to earn his own living and to be independent; besides, he did not intend to leave off studying, only now he could choose his own subjects for study. History—political and natural—astronomy, geography, books on agriculture, horticulture, tree culture, apiculture, all were welcome to him; he would as readily read and study the one as the other, and on many a night, when his stepfather sent him hungry and starving to bed as a punishment for doing nothing in particular, he would console himself and forget his hunger in reading some book or other. It was nothing unusual for him to be caught by the daybreak stealing into his little room, his candle still burning, and he deeply immersed in his book.

CHAPTER XI
HOPES

For the first couple of years Steve’s earnings all went into the pockets of his stepfather. But during the third year Steve simply refused to give up more than three-quarters of his salary, for his father supplied him only with the barest necessities in clothing, and he considered he was entitled to a small portion of his earnings to buy such things as he wished for, such as books, etc.

The first thing Steve did, when he found himself absolute owner of a portion of his earnings, was to subscribe to the local library, even though he sadly wanted a new suit and a new pair of boots. But to be able to select his own books to read from such a stock of books as the library contained, he would have sacrificed almost anything.

He first of all inquired for all books dealing with his beloved South Africa; and if he could find any dealing with the Transvaal or Orange Free State, he was doubly happy. The Transvaal and the Free State were to him as two shining stars in an otherwise dark sky; they were the two states in which his people were free. Ah! how he used to long to go to the Transvaal and live where he could feel free, and say, ‘Here I am a man, for here I can look everybody in the eyes and feel I am his equal, and not subject to a foreign race,’ His plan was firmly made up to go to the Transvaal as soon as ever he could manage to do so. The time did arrive at last when he could go.

CHAPTER XII
THE TRANSVAAL IN PROSPECTIVE

Steve had always watched with absorbing interest the progress of events in the Transvaal. He had seen with intense pity the struggle of the Republican Government to make ends meet, and to prevent financial ruin. But he always trusted that all would come right; and it was with a joy almost greater than if his own fortune was in question that he—at last—saw the rising fortunes of the South African Republic. He saw the reported discoveries of gold at Barberton; which already gave a great stimulus to commerce and trade; and then, as if Providence had determined at last to make the Transvaal prosperous and rich, far beyond the dreams of avarice, the grand discoveries at the Witwatersrand followed those of Barberton, which in turn were augmented by further discoveries all over the district. Miles of main reef were traced out, companies with enormous capitals were promoted, and a time of great prosperity and successful speculation followed. Fortunes were made and lost in a week, a day, an hour. The Government revenues rose by leaps and bounds, and they had no longer to almost beg for the loan of a few thousands. Capitalists were only too eager to advance money on such safe securities as could be offered.

Government officials, who before had to work for the love of country and people only, now received their rewards; from the highest to the lowest they were able to now receive their salaries at the end of the month. And when the finances of the country were placed on a sound and safe footing, the Volksraad did the right thing at the right time by advancing salaries all round.

The reported rich finds, so marvellous and so rich at the Witwatersrand, were soon noised all over the world; and people flocked from all quarters of the globe to the goldfields. They came, saw, and were satisfied—even as the Queen of Sheba was—that all the riches of the Rand had not been reported to them.

A township was laid out and given a name—Johannesburg. Who has not heard of it? Johannesburg became the ninth wonder of the world. It rose, as if in one night, and became a great and well-built city, such as can be found no where else in South Africa, and, in certain senses, nowhere else in the world!

Beautiful buildings, strong and lasting, rose, as if by enchantment, one after the other, proving that confidence was not wanting in the stability of the goldfields.

Johannesburg differed greatly from other goldfields in other countries. In Australia and California, when a goldfield was first rushed, tents and tin shanties prevailed. Here, buildings in brick and stone were prominent everywhere. In the former, law and order was noted for its absence; here, everything was done most orderly and lawfully, which showed once more the ability of the Boer Government to govern even such a community, and that not by display of force. Comparatively few police were kept; only sufficient for watching the individual criminal and vagabond that even such a law-abiding goldfield will attract.

It was, and is, a marvel to many how order and law were kept and administered by such a weak show of police. I believe it was simply the conscious strength and stability of the Government which was felt, if not seen, by all parties, combined by the promptness of the Government to remove all just causes of complaints, and to give aid where aid was required. No honest and just memorial was ever refused by Government. The only request which could not be granted was the Franchise, the justness and fairness of which is open to question, and appears altogether in a different view when seen either by the one side or the other. But of this we shall see more anon.

CHAPTER XIII
THE NESTLING PREPARING FOR FLIGHT

Well, Steve thought these things all tended to realise his dream of becoming a Transvaaler.

One thing only troubled him; would it be right for him to desert his mother and sisters? After long thinking, he decided to leave it to his mother to decide for him, so he went to her and said,—

‘Mother, you know I have always wished to go to the Transvaal; you know what my father said on his death-bed; that I must do all I can to make our people one strong nation, and I can do more for them in a country where they are free and independent. From there I can work as if entrenched in a castle, and who knows, some time we might be able to free our people in this country too? But on the other hand, father also said I must look after you and my sisters; do you think I ought to stay here? do you think I can do more for you staying at home, or can I do as much or more by going to the Transvaal, and work and try and make enough money to be able to help you and my sisters in time of need?’

‘My son, the thought of losing you is dreadful, and that alone could induce me to keep you here; but my love for you is above being selfish; I can only wish for what is best for you, and if you think you can do better in the Transvaal, let not the thought of me or your sisters, keep you back. We can get on, and we shall write to you every week, and if we need you, or aid from you, we shall not fail to let you know. I would not thus give you up so easily, but I know your heart is set upon going; I have expected it for a long time. I believe I can trust you to keep your name and heart pure even thus far away from me; and God will watch over you.’ She wept. Even though she appeared to give him up so easily, to go far away from her, not to see him again, perhaps for years, perhaps never again on earth, her heart was torn to the very roots. But she was an unselfish mother, and would not sacrifice her son’s well-being and future prospects to her love.

‘But, mother, will father be as good to you and sisters when I am away as when I am here, for, without vanity, I may say I think he fears me just enough to forbear from ill-treating my sisters, and when I am away he may feel no such restraint.’

‘Better, I think,’ replied his mother, ‘for I really believe it is the antagonism he feels for you that makes him bad-tempered and cruel sometimes. I think if you are away, and ceased to irritate him, he will be a better stepfather and wife to us.’

‘Mother, you have decided for me. I go as soon as I can hear of an opening!’

CHAPTER XIV
COUSINS

Steve’s cousin and namesake had proceeded to the Transvaal some months before this.

We have mentioned the young man before as Steve’s tutor in the art of smoking. A few words as regards him will not be out of place here, as we may hear, off and on, of his doings, as affecting Steve. We have said before that he was a vacillating young man; a fact which he showed in every act of his life. Years before he surprised Steve’s constant young heart, during the Transvaal war of independence, by declaring—while the issue was as yet uncertain—that the English would give the Boers such a licking as they would never forget. He declared the Boers were cowards. He was one of those that took up the saying, that the Boers would run away at the first cannon shot. He changed his mind when the Boers were successful. Now he composed songs, in which he celebrated the victory of the Republicans in glowing terms, and abused the English tyrants enough to suit the taste of the most fiery Republican. Such was his nature. He was inconstant to his friends, he was inconstant to his sweethearts (mind the plural), he was inconstant to himself!

Like all such natures, he was a braggart and boaster. When he was amongst strangers he was a Crœsus in wealth, a king in power. Amongst his friends, he had always seen and done things wonderful to relate. But not one of them seemed ever to have the luck to be present when he saw and did these things. But his acquaintances knew him, and generally treated his stories with derision and contempt. Their ironical questions and looks appeared to his vanity questions and looks of belief and wonder.

He was not actually ill-natured or unkind. He had his tender spots. Real pain and grief greatly affected him, and brought pity into his heart, and at such times he was always amongst the first to render aid. In this respect only he resembled Steve. In all else he was his direct opposite. His vanity, love of boasting, and wish to thrust himself into a prominent part of whatever was taking place, together with a weakness to be on the side of the stronger party, was the bane of his life. The worst of him was that he did not seem to realise the shame and dishonour of deserting his party when it seemed to be on the losing side and taking up with the stronger.

Steve hated these faults in his cousin, and tried to reason sense and honour into him. But, being several years the junior of his cousin, his opinions were considered as childish, and disregarded. So Steve could only view his cousin’s backslidings with patience and grief; which he did; as he was thrown into daily contact with his cousin through force of circumstances. In one thing or another he had to do with him every day, and really bore him a sort of cousinly affection, but this was unaccompanied by any respect.

CHAPTER XV
THE RISING GENERATION

When Steve’s cousin left for the Transvaal a sort of correspondence was kept up between them. Steve took advantage of this to write to his cousin and ask him to look for a situation for him.

At this time, through the force of circumstances—the want of proper schools, the struggle for existence against poverty, native troubles, and other difficulties—the youth of the Transvaal were seldom educated enough to take their proper places in the civil service of their country, or in the commercial, law, or other offices, so that the Government were forced to employ Hollanders, young educated Afrikanders from the Cape Colony and elsewhere, in the civil service; and merchants, as well as other employers, were forced to do the same, the only difference being, that for Government service a knowledge of official language—Dutch—was absolutely necessary for applicants, while private offices were not always particular, especially commercial offices. Hence the abuse the Government has had to suffer on account of employing so many of their Hollander brothers. These disabilities on the part of born Transvaalers are gradually disappearing through the fostering care of Government. Schools are State-aided in an instituted manner now, and young Transvaalers are continually entering Government service more and more every day.

CHAPTER XVI
THE APRON STRINGS CUT

For the reason given in the last chapter, it did not take Steve’s cousin long to find a good situation for him; and when Steve received the letter in which his success was told, and bidding him come up without a day’s delay, his joy was unbounded.

His preparations did not take long. By selling everything that he had which he could not take with him, and scraping together every penny he had, he just managed to get together sufficient to take him to Pretoria—his final destination. Why linger over Steve’s leave-takings from friends and relatives? why should we restrain him with our presence when he bids good-bye to mother and sisters? why visit with him for the last time the haunts of his childhood? Many of us do not require to be told what took place, many of us have gone through it ourselves, have cast a lingering look on a beloved walk, or favoured spot, have given the last pressure to the hands of dear ones weeping, have felt the choking sensation which prevents the voice from saying the last word we fain would say, but must leave unsaid through emotion.

Steve was on his way to Eldorado; to the land of freedom and wealth; to the land where were centred all his hopes and ambitions for the future.

It was the first time he had left home for longer than a week; but in spite of his regrets to leave home, mother and sisters, he felt happy. He left as if he was a man at last. Free. He was going to fight the battle of life unaided; he asked for naught but a fair field and no favour.

Ah, Nature looked doubly glorious that morning as he rode through the surrounding hills and valleys and felt the genial sunshine and breathed the pure free air.

We will not accompany him any farther. We will leave him travelling on the top of the coach, enjoying his freedom and the beauties of Nature, as viewed from his lofty perch, free to indulge in his day-dreams and build his air castles unstinted for material; his rich imagination supplied all. The future is his; we will meet him in Johannesburg.

CHAPTER XVII
FIRST VIEW OF JOHANNESBURG

A coach halts in front of the coaching office, Johannesburg, a young man gets down and bustles about to secure his luggage, for here the coaches change, a new one has to be taken for Pretoria.

Of course this young man is no other than Steve. He arranges for his luggage to remain at the office until the Pretoria coach leaves, which will not be until three o’clock in the afternoon; it is only 10 a.m. now. He thinks the best thing he can do is to have a look round and see as much as he can of the place while he has the opportunity. He turns to a young man—whose acquaintance he has made during the journey on the coach, and who was returning to Pretoria, after spending a short holiday at the sea-coast—and said,—

‘I say, Harrison, what are you going to do while you wait for the coach?’

‘I am sure I don’t know. Kill time as best I can, I suppose.’

‘Suppose you act as guide and mentor for me in viewing the place. You know the place—I don’t—and you might take me to the places most worth seeing during the few hours we have. Come, be charitable this once, and help a green un.’

‘All right, old boy, I am always willing to be unselfish, and besides it will do as well as anything else to kill time and keep me out of mischief.’

He took Steve all over the principal streets to Hospital Hill, and gave him a bird’s eye view of all the surrounding places; and a sight worth seeing, too, it was to a young man that had just left a quiet provincial town. It was all bustle and vigour wherever he looked. It seemed as if there was an electric power in the air which forced everyone to do and act; no lingering or looking backward here, on, on, seems to be the watchword, or be left behind, to catch up never again. Even Steve seemed to feel this mysterious influence stealing over him as he stood gazing on the busy throng; he felt as if he would like to rush into the midst of them and to push and elbow his way until he was amongst the first, to stay there. For the moment Steve forgot his natural inclination to be reserved and quiet; he felt as if he could push and rush on with the best of them.

But other thoughts soon came crowding on; thoughts of pride and joy that he at last had the privilege to see the place fully which was so famous all over the world for its riches.

And this place belonged to his people—to the Afrikanders. Here they were free, and the equal of other races. Here they had the right to work out their own destiny. Ah, it was something to be proud of; this youthful but mighty and growing city; these surrounding and undulating plains, underneath whose green grass has lain concealed for ages past untold wealth. Wealth which was laid and preserved by Providence for the purpose of helping the people of his race to rescue their country from poverty and financial ruin.

Ah, God has been good to us. He means it well with us. We have a right to hope that he shall lead us on right to the end, if only we can remain true to Him as a people.

He spoke something of the latter thought to his companion, who was an Englishman, and who supposed Steve to be an Englishman too, from his pure accent, as he had learned to speak English very well, and with a purer English accent than is generally acquired by Afrikanders, through being in daily contact in his six years of business life with Englishmen. His companion replied,—

‘My dear fellow, do you think that this rich mining country will long remain in the possession of the Boers? If you do you are mightily mistaken. If the Boers do not themselves soon begin to see that they are unable to keep all these Uitlanders in order, and ask the British Government to take the government of the country over, then England will take it over whether they consent or not?’

Steve felt a pang shoot through his heart.

‘But how can England take their freedom from them? They have once tried to do so, and the Boers fought for their country and liberty and got it back. How can England take it now again?’

‘My dear fellow, you must remember that at that time this country was only a poor, worthless desert and England did not consider it worth while fighting for?’

‘Take that for granted; but even then, do you think England would be so unjust to take the country from the Boers again, just because it turns out to be richer than she thought; that would be disgraceful.’

‘But England has, through her capitalists, thousands of pounds sterling—and soon it will be millions—at stake in the goldfields of the country; she is bound to look after the money her subjects have placed in this country.’

‘Let us put it plainly,’ said Stephen. ‘You have a house, I have a thousand pounds; I wish to find a safe hiding-place for my money, I think your house just the place; I hide it there, without your request or permission. But, on after thoughts, I think my money would be much safer if I had possession of the house instead of you. I arm myself; I go to you and say, “You clear out of this, my money is not safe while you remain in possession.” You refuse to go. I put a bullet through your brain, carry you out, bury you, and take full possession. My money is safe now, no more need be said—might is right. That is about how you place the case.’

Harrison shrugged his shoulders, and replied doggedly,—

‘You do not understand these national affairs; it is otherwise than with individual personal affairs,’

‘I hope I may never understand it, if it means dishonour,’ replied Steve.

After this they wended their way to view a mine or two, from the outside, as they felt they could not spare the time then to go inside a mine. There was very little to be seen from the outside—a large shed-like building, hauling gear over a seemingly bottomless pit, surrounded by heaps of quartz and débris. Steve could hardly realise that this apparently hard, common stone, called quartz, really represented the great wealth of the mines. He had hoped to see, at least, some visible gold, but he was disappointed. It was just hard, flint-like stone, without a particle of yellow metal visible; and yet he was assured the gold was extracted in paying quantities from this stone.

After this they returned to town, to seek some refreshments, and came to a large building in course of erection.

Steve saw a couple of children playing close by, under the scaffolding; he took no particular note of them, but stood admiring the architecture of the building.

Suddenly he heard a cry of horror behind him; he saw a gentleman and lady standing with upheld hands, with a horror-struck and transfixed expression, looking at the children near to him; he turned, and what he saw sent a thrill of horror through him. He loved children, and would rather bear pain himself a thousand times than see a child in pain, wherefore he felt the danger of a child all the more. What he saw was this: A little girl was standing under the scaffolding, innocently looking at a beautiful doll another girl was carrying in the street, without seeing the terrible danger that was threatening her. Above her a tremendously heavy beam, which was securely tied at one end, was slipping down on the opposite side, a workman was holding the dangerous end. A rope was tied round it, and he was holding with all his might to prevent its falling; but the weight was too much for him. He dared not take breath to call out for help, the waste of the least breath, or the least bit of strength taken from the effort of holding the beam, would precipitate its fall. But it was slipping—slipping. ‘My God,’ thought he, ‘will no one see and take away that child.’ Someone saw. The cry of the mother of the child and the look of horror on her face had drawn Steve’s attention to the danger. He saw all we have described in the flash of an eye. Not a moment did he hesitate or think what he should do. He never lost his presence of mind in danger. Like the arrow from a bow, he flew right under the threatening beam, the fall of which meant death to any living creature that might be under it. He seized the child by the dress, and came out on the opposite side of the beam. He felt a shock against his shoulder, as if some heavy object struck him. He felt himself whirled round several times by the shock, and thrown against the wall. The thunder, as of a falling mountain, sounded in his ears. But he held the child firmly in his arms; she was safe. The beam had fallen, if Steve had been a fraction of a second later, or the beam had fallen a fraction of a second sooner, both he and the child would have been crushed. As it was, it just grazed his shoulder. He was unhurt save for a severe bruise on the shoulder.

Of course, a crowd collected in a moment. The mother and father had rushed over from the opposite side of the street where they had been standing. The mother was hugging and kissing the child; the father was wringing the hand of Steve, with protestations of gratitude and service. A re-action came for the mother; she felt faint and could scarcely speak her gratitude to Steve. So her husband hurried her to a carriage with the child, and going to Steve said,—

‘My friend, you have done a brave action; you have saved my child, on whose life the happiness of my wife and myself depends. I am your friend and debtor for life; here is my card. Let me see you this afternoon, and if there is anything I can do for you, I trust you will let me know it. I would not leave you now, but I must take my wife home.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Steve; he was thankful to be prevented from saying more by being pushed and pulled away by the crowd.

He hurried to find his companion (who had seen and heard all), and said to him, ‘Come on, Harrison; we have no time to lose, if we do not wish to lose our coach!’

‘What, are you going away without accepting the invitation of your new-found debtor? I would not, if I were you. He might do something good for you. Let me see his card.’

On seeing the name on the card, he whistled in surprise.

‘I say, young fellow, your fortune is made; I wish I were you. Why, man, the name on this card represents the most successful speculator and company promoter on the Rand. Why, a tip from him is worth thousands. Of course you will change your mind and let the coach take care of itself, and go and see him as he requested.’

‘Of course not; I do not like this fuss and bother about nothing. I do not wish to be paid for doing a humane action. Come on, let us be off,’ And in spite of his companion’s repeated advice not to lose such an opportunity to make his way in the world, Steve boarded the coach and left for Pretoria.

Quixotic? Yes, I suppose so. Unworthy the nineteenth century? No! I think the nineteenth century is unworthy of such Quixotism. Such an act is only worthy of the time of knight errantry, when men acted only for the honour of the thing, and every deed was not valued in £ s. d. But then Steve lived in that time in a sense—in a shell; his shell was composed of books, in which such creeds are still taught and tolerated, even though they are derided and laughed down in actual life—that is, in ultra-civilised life, which really means ‘live for self, and self only; nothing for nothing, and everything for gold.’ But Steve was unacquainted with this creed as yet; let us hope that he will never become the slave of such a creed.

CHAPTER XVIII
PRETORIA AND ITS LIFE

The writer of this has never admired the works of Rider Haggard; they are too untrue—untrue to Nature and the probabilities of life, and certainly untrue to facts, which are grossly exaggerated. But even in winter a strayed swallow is seen in our country. On the barest plain a tree is met occasionally, and in Haggard’s work I once came across something with which I can cordially agree. It is long ago since I read it, but it so surprised me that I have always remembered it. Yet it is so long since I read it that I am not quite sure in which of his works I saw it; but if I am not mistaken the thing is in Jess. The passage I refer to is where he says that Pretoria is the prettiest town in South Africa; and if Haggard thought so in the days when he knew Pretoria, when the streets were swamps, covered with grass, and it was a danger to venture out of doors after dark for fear of breaking a limb in some concealed hole, when no better building—or hardly better—than the house which Jess inhabited existed in the town, what must we say of it now, when the streets have been rebuilt (more or less), when beautiful buildings—the best and grandest in South Africa—have been raised; merchant princes have erected palaces, beautiful stores rival European houses, and Government has covered a block of ground with a pile of buildings of which even Pretoria can be proud. Even Nature herself has been improved upon, if I may be allowed to say so. Plantations of trees have been planted, where formerly bare plots of ground existed, beautifully laid out ornamental and flower gardens enchant the vision. A block of tares, which grew only a crop of grass formerly, is now laid out in a beautiful park, worthy the name, with a large fish pond in the centre, and even a substantially built bandstand has been added lately. All in all, Pretoria more than deserves the name so often applied to it, ‘Pretty Pretoria’; it really deserves to be called beautiful Pretoria.

No wonder, then, that Steve, who possessed a keenly appreciative eye for the beautiful, was enchanted with the view which met his eye when he entered Pretoria through the poort, from which emerges the road leading into it from Johannesburg, and he felt—like so many others have felt before and since—that once having seen Pretoria, a man may travel the world over, but he would ever feel a longing to be back in Pretoria. Many have felt this longing when in foreign lands, and have come back. Steve found his cousin waiting for him at the halting-place, and was soon introduced into his room at the quiet boarding-house, which had been secured for him at his request.

After a few days spent in resting after travelling for days in a cramped and crowded position, and becoming acquainted with the town in which he had resolved to make his home, Steve took his place in the office where he had secured the much-desired situation.

It did not take Steve long to get well into the mysteries of his work and the good graces of his employer and fellow-clerks. What pleased him most was that he came in daily contact with the Burghers of the district, which gave him the opportunity he had desired, viz., of studying the men whom he looked upon as heroes, in that they had dared so much and suffered so much, and had come out of the ordeal safe and victorious.

He found them distrustful at first, although kind and respectful. The stranger you are to them, the more civilly and kindly you are treated, but always with great reserve. But by studying them, and being always friendly and cordial towards them, he soon gained their confidence, and many was the pound of butter and biltong, varied now and then by a dozen of eggs, a couple of fowls, and at Christmas time even a lamb, that he received from them as tokens of friendship.

He found that the better they knew you, and the more they liked you, the more they joked with you and teased you. They are very fond of teasing, which has led foreigners to take them in earnest, and spread all sorts of reports, repeating for fact what the Boers said when they were only what is vulgarly but expressively called chaffing them. They especially delighted in doing this to ‘green uns,’ but always with the utmost good nature, and only when they liked such a ‘green un.’ They would never do it to one whom they disliked or distrusted. By the good grace and good nature with which Steve received all this banter, he got to be greatly liked, and was soon considered as being quite one of them, and was known to them far and wide. We shall see a great deal more of them in connection with Steve’s adventures and life amongst them, and shall delight to study their character with him with the view of understanding better this much maligned people.

In this way Steve spent several years of quiet life. He applied himself vigorously to his work, so that, as we have said, he soon gained the confidence of his employers, and speedily obtained promotion and increase of salary, which enabled him, while saving considerably, to send many a present to his mother and sisters.

In the boarding-house where he lodged, he found quite a pleasant party, composed of many nationalities, amongst whom he struck up many friendships irrespective of language. He found himself a fellow-lodger of his cousin; his former travelling companion, Harrison; another Englishman, a colonial named Keith, and a young Afrikander named Theron, who formed his particular circle of friends, and they generally managed to be together when any excursion or picnic was undertaken.

Although, as we have said, he did not really agree with his cousin, he felt that in common gratitude towards him for having obtained a situation for him, and as a duty due to cousinly affection, he was bound to include him as one of his friends.

In the boarding-house, the boarders were in the habit of forming themselves into a sort of free and easy debating society, for want of better recreation in the long evenings. That is to say those who did not care to spend their evenings in bar-rooms and billiard saloons, which formed Pretoria’s principal places of amusement at this time. Of course it goes without saying, that Steve kept clear as much as possible of these places, for he was accustomed in his native town to the idea that it was a disgrace for any self-respecting man or youth to be seen going into a bar. What shocked him was for the first time to see a girl serving drink in a bar, surrounded by a coarse and blaspheming crowd of young men. To him women had always seemed as creatures almost divine, too good to be touched without veneration. He thought they should be worshipped at a distance, and that in their presence the most choice and delicate language only should be used. There he saw them treated roughly and disrespectfully, and even handled as if they were only coarse, common, everyday human beings, and worst of all they seemed to be pleased with such treatment, and even to invite it by their actions.

‘Surely,’ thought he, ‘these girls must have mothers and fathers, who grieve over their disgrace and degradation; and many of them must have brothers—what must their feelings be to see their sisters in such a position?’ And he would utter a silent prayer for God to keep his sisters innocent and pure. Of course Steve’s horror of bars and barmaids gradually lessened, and he afterwards even went so far as to accept an invitation from a friend now and again to ‘Come and have something cooling this hot weather,’ or, ‘something warming this cold day?’ (for alcohol seems to have the power to cool on hot days and warm on cold days); but he never allowed himself to acquire the habit of frequenting these places, and when he did enter them, he always treated the barmaids with the utmost respect; for, said he, ‘The question is not, whether they are ladies, but whether I am a gentleman.’

Through his always keeping from bad places, and only going to places where he was sure respectability was guaranteed, he soon got into a good circle of society in Pretoria. He was received and welcomed in the best families, but his pride kept him from taking full advantage of this. He was too poor to meet them on equal terms, and rather than meet them as an inferior, even though it were only in purse, he would rather not meet them at all, except in a casual way now and again. For Steve was proud, and, what is more, he was proud of his pride. ‘For,’ said he, ‘if it were not for my pride, I would do many a wrong action which now I am too proud to do.’ He was never too proud to do a good action. He would stop and speak to the poorest beggar on the street if he could do good by it. He would walk alongside of a poor, ill-dressed person in the street, were his clothes ever so much patched; his hat so old that it hung over his eyes; he would never think of his dress, if it were a hard-working, honest man. But he was too proud to be seen in the company of a well-dressed, idle, good-for-nothing, bar-frequenting, prostitute-hunting man. He was too proud to speak or know a flighty, forward woman. And who shall say that he was wrong?

CHAPTER XIX
A DEBATE

As we have said before, Steve and his fellow-boarders sometimes constituted themselves into a sort of debating society, in which the public questions of the day were generally discussed. Let us follow Steve into the drawing-room, which he is just entering as a heated debate is on.

‘Hullo, Keith, at it again as usual, running down the powers that be of the land we live in,’ remarked Steve on entering. ‘What is the use of knocking your head against a rock; for I tell you this Government is as firmly established as a rock. Have you ever seen a big old mastiff walking along the street, calm and self-contained, a troop of curs following, barking and snapping at him, without the mastiff taking the least notice of their noise or snaps. Well, Oom Paul is the mastiff, the newspapers that abuse him and petty pot politicians (I hope the shoe won’t fit you) are the curs; there you have my opinion.’

‘So you think it currish to stand up for your rights, and agitate for it?’

‘By no means.’

‘What do you mean then?’

‘I think it currish to be perpetually barking and snapping at a man, as so many of the Jingo imperialistic papers and private amateur politicians are continually doing. You do not see it because you do not wish to do so; but just watch the actions of the Government, no matter what they may do or decide upon doing, but it is reviled and cried down. They may do something with the most honest intention of pleasing the Uitlanders, but some sinister intention is found, or supposed to be found, lurking behind it. No contract is given out for some public work, no matter if the man be the best workman and has sent in the lowest tender, but somebody is sure to have taken a bribe from the contractor to work into his hands, and so with everything, just because it is a Boer Government; any stick will do to beat a dog with, or—a Boer official.’

‘Well, all the same, it is hard lines that an educated Englishman should submit to laws made by ignorant, uneducated Boers; we won’t submit to it. Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never will be slaves; there you have my opinion.’

‘My dear fellow, no one wants you to submit to it. I don’t believe you got an invitation from the Boer Government to come here and live under their laws. All you have to do is to submit to it or leave. No one will prevent you or ask you to come back. I do not say this because I wish to make myself nasty, but, in common fairness, you must consider what is right. Here you come into a free Republic, inhabited by a quiet, peace-loving, God-fearing people. They have obtained their country after herculean struggles against enemies from within and without. Again and again they had to fight for country and liberty, and at last they seem to be safe, and wealth comes to them. Strangers from afar come unto them. (Strangers, besides, who are of the people who have persecuted and chased them from their old home, “into a new country, and out again”; and still are they threatened by the Government of these self-same strangers.) They share their wealth with these strangers, they give these strangers the protection of their laws, on an equal footing with themselves. But these gold-hunting strangers are not satisfied with this. It is not enough for them to share with the original owners of the soil—no, they want to be masters! And because the owners of the soil will not walk quietly out of their country and give everything up to the would-be usurpers, they are reviled, libelled and abused. You are an Englishman, an Englishman’s boast is supposed to be love of “fair play,” where does your love of fair play come in here?’

‘But if they wish to share with us, why do they not share the franchise with us?’

‘That is it—you are asking for the handle of the knife. You know very well that if the franchise is given to every Tom, Dick and Harry, the Uitlanders will get hold of the handle, and if the Boers should try to pull it out of their hands, they will cut their fingers. You are asking them to simply commit political suicide. No, old man, a thing obtained, as their liberty was obtained, will be more cherished than to be thus lightly given up. Now, if your intentions were honest and fair to the Boers, you would quietly wait your hour until the stipulated time expires, when you may legally become a Burgher; and if the time appears rather long, I have perfect confidence that, if the Uitlanders will only show the Government that they wish to become peaceful, law-abiding citizens of the Republic, anxious to advance the honour and prosperity of the country of their adoption, which they can only do by working with the Government, and ceasing to show their prejudice to everything that is Boer, then I am sure the Government will soon shorten the time of probation, and take them into the fold of full burghership.’

‘Yes; but we are not going to humble ourselves and beg for a vote; no, by Jingo! sooner than that, we will fight for it, and take by force what is refused us when we ask for it. Besides, even though we are not strong enough to take the Government by force, we only have to get up a row, and start some sort of revolution, and ask the British Government to step in, and of course England will say to your President, “You cannot keep the peace, we will have to come and keep it for you,” and the trick is done, wacht een beetje.’

Such reasoning disgusted Steve, as I am sure it would many an honest and fair-thinking Englishman. However, he replied,—

‘All I can say is that, if England does this, her glory shall pass away from her; such injustice will be tolerated by neither God nor man, and England shall raise such a cry of shame as has never been heard before. She shall feel something like the man who opened a hive of angry bees, and when the bees are stinging and buzzing about his ears, she shall be sorry she ever opened that hive. But I must say I have more faith in the honour and justice of your countrymen than you seem to have.’

Such discussions as these were the order of the day, and the sample given above may be taken as a fair example of the opinions of the two parties in the country. We shall leave the debaters now, but on some future occasion we shall take advantage of the privilege of historians to visit them again.

CHAPTER XX
A HUNTING WE GO

After a few years stay in Pretoria, Steve and his four special friends made up a party for a sort of picnic and shooting expedition combined.

They procured a roomy Cape cart and four horses, laid in a stock of tinned provisions for three weeks, and started one sunny morning in August.

It was a beautiful day, and our friends enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air greatly, after their long confinement in town and office. Steve’s cousin, as usual, took a leading part. He was driving. After a halt for breakfast and again for dinner—which was doubly relished for being partaken of in the open air—they went on at a good pace, so as to arrive in time, before dark set in, at a certain farm, the owner of which was known to Steve.

‘Well, I declare this is grand,’ remarked Steve as he lay back in the cart, comfortably settled and puffing away contentedly at his pipe. ‘I do enjoy driving at a good pace, with the wind fanning your chin—oh—ah—her—goodness gracious, where are we going to? I must remark here, and at once, that I don’t enjoy a journey to the centre of the earth, where you seem to be taking us, cousin mine. What in the name of goodness do you mean by driving us in here?’

‘But I am in the path.’

‘My dear fellow, don’t you know that when you come to a place like this, the farther you are out of the path the safer you are? Let me instruct you now, once for all, that while you are driving this company, when you come to a black-looking, soft, soapy, muddy hole like this, turn out of the path, and cross where you see the longest grass, and if a cart or waggon has never ridden there before so much the better.’

For the benefit of the reader, who is unacquainted with Transvaal roads, we will describe the sort of ‘black, soft, soapy, muddy hole,’ as Steve called it. In certain patches of the country stretches of a black, soft soil are found, something like what, I imagine, an Irish bog to be from descriptions that I have read of it. When rain has not lately fallen, it is hard and firm enough, but where a stream runs through it, then you have to be careful. Those who know what they are about, generally take good care to cross where no one else has crossed before, and where grass is growing, where the grass itself and its roots form a pretty safe bridge across. But where waggons or carts have been in the habit of crossing, the grass and roots have been cut up, down you go, horses and all, up to the nave and over. In just such a hole our young hunters now found themselves. The horses were up to their bellies in the soft mud, and could find no foothold to work themselves and the cart out. The cart itself was simply floating on the mud, the bottom of the cart lying like a boat on it, while a little of it ran in and blackened the tan-coloured shooting boots of the occupants. What were they to do now? To leave the cart meant a mud bath, and such mud!—black, sticky, oily mud!

I am afraid they would have made up their minds to spend the night in their uncomfortable position; but always when danger seems to be greatest, help is near at hand.

Fortunately for them, they were in sight of the farmhouse where they intended spending the night; and the kindly old Boer and his two sons were soon seen coming along with half-a-dozen oxen yoked to a long chain.

The chain was soon fastened to the harness of the leaders, which the rescuers could just reach, and the oxen pulled out cart and horses. But what a state they were in; the nice tan-coloured harness was painted black as far as the mud reached, so were the horses and cart. But fortunately night was coming on, and the entry of the visitors to the werf did not look so disreputable as it otherwise would have done.

CHAPTER XXI
A BOER AND HIS FAMILY

The farmhouse at which our young friends arrived in such an unclean state, was a really fine villa, had only lately been built, and was as comfortable and commodious as any town-built villa, and as good looking too. A verandah surrounded the house, affording a shady seat at any time of the day; a convenience which is greatly valued in this country, especially in December and January, when it is too hot and close to remain indoors with any sort of comfort.

The rooms inside were comfortably furnished, each spare bedroom being provided with a feather bed, wash-hand stand, chest of drawers, surmounted by a mirror, and a couple of chairs. Of course the bedroom of the father and mother of the house was the bedroom par excellence, and was furnished in style. The dining-room possessed an expanding dining-table and a suite of morocco covered chairs, also mahogany sideboard, and a few pictures—sea views—mounted in gilded frames, adorned the walls.

But the room on which the most money and care had been lavished was the sitting-room. An upright piano in one corner faced an American organ in the opposite corner; a thick carpet covered the floor, on which was distributed a satin-covered drawing-room suite and table to match; a whatnot and book cabinet occupied the two corners not filled by piano and organ; innumerable vases, ornaments and nick-nacks completed the decorations, as far as the furniture was concerned. As to the walls, they were reserved for the family portraits—grandfathers and grandmothers, both paternal and maternal—fathers and mothers ditto; and then came two grand life-size portraits of the present head of the family and his wife, flanking a family group of the whole existing family.

The house overlooked a fine valley, through which flowed a rivulet of bright clear water, from which was irrigated the grand orchard and ornamental trees which occupied the whole stretch of ground lying between the rivulet and the house. This orchard was the pride and care of the mother of the house, who was assisted by a ‘Cape boy’ (bastard), who in turn was assisted by two or three Kaffirs in the care of the orchard. She had taken particular pride in ordering fruit trees and vines of the best and latest varieties, as well as roses and flowering shrubs and ornamental trees, such as her neighbours had never seen before, from the Cape and Natal. Of course, the father of the house had enough to do, even with the assistance of the sons, in looking after the numerous lands lying lower down the fertile valley, and then he had the care of the large herd of cattle and sheep grazing on the surrounding hills; besides which cares, he had lately been busy planting timber and fodder trees. Lately he even had to do without the assistance of his two sons, as one was studying for some profession in Edinburgh and the other at Bloemfontein, O. F. S., while he himself had lately been elected a member of the Volksraad, and was thus obliged to spend four months of the year in town, assisting at the council of the nation.

This particular farmer had not always been so well off as now. When he first married he had this farm—inherited from his father—a couple of hundred sheep, a dozen or so of cows, a waggon, and one span of oxen. He and his wife went to live on this farm with no capital whatever to work this uncultivated and houseless farm. He set to work, built a hartebeest house (mud house), composed of three little rooms—kitchen, dining-room and sitting-room combined, and a little bedroom. Together they worked and economised, saving every penny they could, made kraals, planted trees, sowed the lands, made irrigation furrows, and tended their flock of sheep, until they got fairly well off and saved enough even to buy another half farm adjoining theirs.

The discoveries of gold came, gold was found on the lately bought half farm, and was sold for £20,000 cash, with a quantity of shares in the company buying it. Thus prosperity came, and our former struggling, hard-working Boer, who had to put his own shoulder to the wheel and work hard himself, if he wanted anything done, could take matters easy and enjoy himself.

What did he do now—live on the fat of the land and let others do the work? No. Just here I want to point out a peculiarity which I have noticed in our Dutch farmers in the Transvaal.

In the boom for gold farms, many a formerly struggling farmer has suddenly found himself a rich man, selling his farm, or one of his farms, for from £10,000 to £100,000 or more, and yet, amongst them all, I do not know of one of them that has given up his former simple mode of life and leads a retired easy life. They may build a larger, finer and more comfortable house, furnish it better, be more lavish in their hospitality, but their former occupation is never given up. Still they sow their lands, still they tend their flocks, still the season’s yield of wool is taken to town, and from the proceeds thereof the household requirements are provided. A progressive farmer will spend some of his thousands to improve his farms, his implements and his stock, but his occupation is kept, with few exceptions. Even members of the Government, who formerly farmed, keep their farms going, visiting them now and then, even though they could not attend to them themselves. Even so with the particular farmer we have been describing. His wealth increased his responsibilities and cares, but in nowise decreased his work.

We have given this description of a farmer of the wealthier classes; we would give his name, but it would serve no purpose, it might only displease him, as he, in common with most of his race, dislikes publicity. Let it suffice that the description given is from life.

CHAPTER XXII
A TALK ON BEES

Steve and his friends were received with the greatest cordiality; first, because Steve was known to the family and liked by them, and secondly, because hospitality is natural—in fact, seems born in a Boer. You will arrive at a farmhouse—poor or rich—you are one of the so-called hated nation—a rooi nek (nickname given to Englishmen because their tender skin causes their necks to blister and turn red in the hot South African sun, literally meaning ‘red nek’)—unknown; at the door you meet a youngster just able to talk. You will dismount. This premature young man will come up to you with an air of—playing the host about him, will take hold of your hand, give it a shake, and say,—

‘Wil Oom nie afzaal nie?’ (Will uncle saddle off?)

Yes you will.

‘Well, then, uncle can walk just right in and have a cup of coffee; I will see to the horse.’

Well, as I said, our young friends were well received, and soon found themselves seated around a supper table, as well laid and as well provisioned as man’s heart could desire in such a locality. Roast beef, stewed guinea-fowl, leg of venison, stuffed with bacon and baked vegetables, salads, etc., custard pudding, blanc mange, fresh butter, cheese, etc., washed down with coffee, and such coffee as only a Tante knows how to brew, and that Java coffee too. After supper, the party adjourned to the sitting-room, where they were soon followed by the Tante, after she had seen to the servants getting their food, and the remnants of the supper had been safely put away.

‘Now, Stephaans,’ said she to Steve, ‘you or your friends must come and look at a bee-hive that a winkelier (shopkeeper) made me buy in town last week. It is one of those new-fangled patent things. Its inside is full of pieces of wood—goodness only knows what for. They say it is better than just an empty box for the bees. I don’t understand it. Do you or any of your friends understand it?’

Now Steve saw a chance to distinguish himself in the way he liked to do—by being useful. Apiarian books had been among his favourite studies, so he knew all about it, having always kept one or more hives for study and also for—honey.

‘Well, Tante, if you will send for the hive, I shall explain all about it to you.’

The hive came, and Steve surprised even his companions by the learned dissertation he gave on bees and bee-keeping. He surprised the simple old gentleman and his lady almost into disbelief, when he told them the queen was the mother of all the bees in the hive; that she was only a fully developed female bee, reared from the self-same egg from which the worker bee is raised, and that she is only made a queen by over feeding and by giving her more space to grow out in in the cell. That the drones, or, as they called them in Dutch, water-carriers, are not water-carriers, but that they are, in fact, great, lazy, good-for-nothing male bees, who love to live on what the females earned in the fields, and absolutely refuse to do any work (as so many of their sex, even in the human race, delight to do); that, in fact, they were unable to do any work—not being built that way; but were only called into existence to be husbands to the young queens, which may be raised during the season for the purpose of sending out swarms, and thus obey the command of the Creator when He said, ‘Go forth and multiply.’

But their surprise reached its climax, when he told them that he could make the bees manufacture a queen for themselves, should they be queenless, by simply giving them eggs or larvæ to make her from; that, in fact, he could force them to make as many queens to his order as he liked by simple manipulation, and that he could thus make three or four swarms of bees out of one in a season. He tried to explain to them all this, and by explaining the why and the wherefore, he soon got them to believe and understand him. He also showed them how to fix and wire the wax foundation in the frames, and thus spare the poor bees a lot of work; also told them how, by the use of an extractor, they could extract all the honey from the combs without breaking the comb, and thus save the bees the time and expense of wax to rebuild it. ‘All you have to do is to replace the empty comb in the hive, when the bees refill it.’

The Oom and Tante were especially pleased when it was explained to them that by the use of the modern hive they were spared the cruel necessity of destroying any of the young bees or brood, when taking the honey out, or, as it is truthfully called, robbing the hive, and that the honey reserved for the use of man was pure, without young bees or pollen (bee bread).

From bee-keeping the conversation drifted to gardening, vegetable and flower, as well as fruit culture, in all of which Steve was an adept. He told the Tante of so many new modes of grafting and pruning, that she exclaimed he talked like a book.

In this way it happened, that Steve gained the friendship and respect of all the country people he came across. He could talk to them of things they understood and which interested them—matters concerning their everyday life.

CHAPTER XXIII
GOOD SHOTS

After a good night’s rest and a hearty breakfast, our friends once more resumed their journey, being anxious to get farther away from town, where there would be a greater probability of getting something to shoot at.

About three o’clock in the afternoon they reached another acquaintance of Steve’s, and were received with an almost effusive welcome.

The family consisted of Oom Ignatious, Tante Letta, Ignatious, junior, eldest, Daniel, second eldest, and Lettie, junior.

Oom Ignatious (pronounced Ignaas) was a spare, slightly grey old man, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, partly from hard work and partly from a weak chest. He was a kindly old man, uneffusive, but always had a smile and a kindly word for friend or enemy. He never lost his temper—at least, not visibly, whatever his inward feelings might be; when annoyed he hardly showed it. He always remained civil and kind, but was ever firm and strong in upholding what he considered right.

Tante Letta was fat, fair, and forty. Her estimated weight was three hundred pounds. She had never been weighed; when asked, she objected on the ground that it was only desired to ‘drijf de spot met mij’ (to make a laughing-stock of me). But with all her weight she was a good old soul. Everybody loved the old lady for her goodness. She could never do enough for you to show her hospitable inclinations. She was always bustling about, causing wonder and surprise to all how she could remain on her feet all day in spite of her great weight. When you did manage to persuade her to sit down and have a chat, she simply charmed you with her kindly, smiling, fat, double-chinned face.

The two sons were both big giants of young men, straight as a die, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, healthy-looking and strong, handsome in face and figure, with curly light brown hair, clean-shaven cheeks, but wearing light handsome moustaches. Finally, as to moral character, they were their father and mother’s children in deed as well as name. But little Lettie was the angel of the house. I can’t describe her with sufficient power to place her before the reader as I knew her. I will attempt, but I know it will be a failure, and will give the reader only a bare idea of her looks. Tall, slender, with a graceful willowy carriage, what a poem in her walk, in her every movement and look! What sweetness in those large star-like eyes, gleaming like dark-coloured diamonds under the long-lashed eyelids. The lines of the face, the shape of nose and chin, I cannot describe, I simply give in; I know not to what style it belonged; I only know they were—Beautiful. The mouth I can and will describe. It was made to kiss. The long hair was worn loose, and flowed in waves down to the waist in a dark, massive cloud. The dress was a loose, simple gown, fitting the form sufficiently close to show the perfections of the figure; smart costumes would only mar such a figure.

Steve will never forget the walk he took alone with Lettie to the flower garden that afternoon; to him she was the fairest flower that ever he had seen.

Reader! to prevent any future disappointment, I must here state that Lettie is not going to be the heroine of this story; that Steve is not going to marry her, or even to fall madly in love with her. He admired and liked her, but after this visit she passes out of his life; we shall hear no more of her. I have tried to place her before the reader as I still see her in my mind’s eye, as a type of the better class of Boer girls, whose figure has not been spoiled by bad taste and knowledge of dressing, and, alas, by hard work too. For many a poor farmer is obliged to help himself with the labour of his girls for want of servants; and thus their shoulders become bent through constant stooping and hard work, and their figures spoiled and ruined.

I have been told of a certain farmer who ploughed, sowed and reaped his lands with the aid of four girls; while one tended the sheep, one the oxen, one led, and one drove the span of oxen pulling the waggon. And thus he had to do all his work with only the assistance of his daughters. He had been blessed with a troop of girls, and not one boy. And as to native labour, since the gold mines are offering such high wages, the poor farmer must consider himself lucky if he can get any at all; while many cannot afford to pay a price sufficiently high to keep their boys from going off to the gold mines. Thus it is that we see so many ill-figured Boer girls. But for all that, I do believe that amongst the Boer women are to be found some as handsome as any in the world. The faint attempt at a description of Lettie is not drawn from the imagination, but is exactly as she was known to the writer.

It was amongst this family that our party of hunters now found themselves.

As I have said, they were welcomed most heartily, their horses were soon stabled and themselves led into the house and refreshed with coffee and cake.

Oom Ignatious, not having had the luck as yet to sell a gold farm, had to content himself with a moderate-sized farmhouse of the old Dutch style, mainly built by himself and friends. It consisted of a dining-room, hall and sitting-room combined (nothing unusual), three bedrooms—one bedroom for the old people, one for Lettie, and one for the boys—and a kitchen—five altogether.

Oom Ignatious’s wealth consisted of his oxen and sheep and in what he managed to raise from his lands, on all of which he contrived to live comfortably without any waste or want, but without having much surplus over at the end of the year.

When Oom Ignatious heard that they were out for the purpose of killing something, he told Ignatious, junior, and Daniel to leave the work they were at and show them the haunts of certain oribe and steenbuck that they knew of.

Our party of greenhorns failed to bag anything in spite of repeated attempts. The young Boers showed them buck after buck quietly grazing in the long grass, but, standing or running, our young friends missed every shot. At last Keith said, ‘These young fellows are laughing at us, the bucks are too far away, you can’t hit them at such a distance.’ The young Boers, who knew a few words of English, understood this, but said never a word, and kept on making themselves as agreeable as possible to Keith with their scant knowledge of English.

At last, they were on their homeward way, no game in their bags, when suddenly Ignatious pulled Keith by the arm, enjoined silence, and pointed to a distant rise in the level plain and said,—

‘Do you see that oribe lying there against the butt?’

‘Where? I do not see anything but grass.’

‘There, don’t you see where I am pointing?’

‘No, old chappie, you do not come it over me, there is nothing there.’

‘Well, give me your gun.’ He had left his gun at home not to spoil the sport of their guests.

Keith gave him the gun with the remark that it was only a waste of ammunition. Ignatious knelt on one knee and rested his arm on the other, took aim and fired, something bounded in the air at the spot pointed out and fell down again and nothing more was seen. Ignatious quietly handed Keith his gun back and led the way towards the spot. Daniel was holding Steve’s gun in his hand admiring the workmanship of it, when, as they approached the spot, a buck was seen running from it. Everyone shouted, ‘There it goes,’ and ran in a slanting direction as if to intercept it when a shot was heard. Once more the buck bounding into the air several feet, fell down to rise no more. It was Daniel who had fired this time and killed the buck on the run. They went towards it, cut it up, took out the intestines and shouldered it, when Ignatious said, ‘Now let us go and get the other one.’