Notwithstanding the exalted opinion of it professed by its inhabitants,
the interests of Doppersdorp were from the very nature of things
circumscribed. They embraced, for the most part, such entrancing topics
as the price of wool, the last case of assault, ditto of water rights--
for the burgesses of Doppersdorp were alike a pugnacious and litigious
crowd--the last Good Templar meeting, and the number of liquors
Tompkins, the waggon builder, could put away without impairing his
centre of gravity; whether Macsquirt, the general dealer, would bring
his threatened libel action against the _Doppersdorp Flag_--a turgid
sheet of no apparent utility, save for enveloping a bar of yellow soap--
that leader of public opinion having referred to him as "an
insignificant `winkler'" (i.e., small shopkeeper), instead of "that
enterprising merchant," and whether he would succeed in obtaining a
farthing of damages or costs from its out-at-elbows proprietor and
editor, if he won--such, with slight variation, were the topics which
exercised the minds and the tongues of this interesting community from
year's end to year's end. Such a variation was afforded by the arrival
of two new and important members in its midst. Upon these Doppersdorp
was not slow to make up its mind, and whether foregathered in council
and the bar of the Barkly Hotel, or secure in the privacy of home
circle, hesitated not to express the same in no halting terms.
Now, the collective mind on the subject of Roden Musgrave was adverse.
His demerits were of a negative order, which is to say that his sins had
been those of omission rather than of commission, and, as was sure to be
the case, had rendered him unpopular. Who was he, Doppersdorp would
like to know, that he shut himself up like an oyster, as if nobody was
worth speaking to? though the possibility that the motive attributed to
the bivalve delicacy might be wide of the mark did not occur to the
originator of this felicitous simile. His predecessor, young Watkins,
had been hail-fellow-well-met with everybody; was, in fact, as nice a
young fellow as they could wish--and here Doppersdorp unwittingly
answered its own indignant query.
Roden Musgrave had no idea of being "young Anybody" to Dick, Tom, and
Harry, or hail-fellow-well-met--i.e., on terms to be patronised by the
various ornaments of Doppersdorp society, shading off in imperceptible
gradations to the local tailor, whom he would be obliged to indict
nearly every Monday morning for having overstepped the limits of public
order during the Saturday night's "spree," and been run in by the police
therefor. He had a wholesome belief in the old proverb regarding too
much familiarity, seeing in it a happy application to a man holding the
post he did in such a place as Doppersdorp. Wherein his reasoning was
sound; but the collective sense of the community opined differently, and
was wont to pronounce with graphic, if somewhat profane indignation,
that the new magistrate's clerk mistook himself for his omnipotent
Creator, and, in fact, wanted taking down a peg.
Not all, however, were of this opinion: his official chief, for
instance, as we have seen, and perhaps two or three others, among them
the retiring District Surgeon, Lambert's predecessor, a somewhat
cynical, at bottom, though on the surface rollicking, kind of
individual. He to Roden, while making his adieux: "We are sure to
tumble up against each other again somewhere, Musgrave, but one
consolation is that it couldn't be among a set of more infernal
scoundrels than we shall leave behind us here, as you'll find out by the
time you get a quarter of my experience of them." Which caustic
delivery Roden was at no pains to controvert, feeling sure that it
covered a large substratum of truth. Indeed, he was not long in
suspecting that to the dictum of Lambert's predecessor there was every
possibility Lambert might contribute, in his own person, his full share
of confirmation.
But whatever Roden's opinion of the new doctor, it was not shared by the
community at large. Lambert possessed all those qualities calculated to
make him "go down" in a place like Doppersdorp. He was young and
energetic--he had a certain breezy geniality of manner, and was very
much hail-fellow well-met with all classes. Doppersdorp opened its arms
and took him to its heart. He soon became as popular as the other was
the reverse.
But, for his own unpopularity Roden Musgrave cared not a rush. He was
not over eager to court the doubtful honour of being voted a "reel jolly
good chep," by Dick, Tom, and Harry, as the price of his self-respect.
His ambition did not lie that way. In private life he was not given to
the exchange of shoulder slaps, or jocose digs in the ribs, or other
genialities in the way of horseplay dear to the heart of that surprising
trinity; nor in his official capacity was he inclined to wink at certain
preposterous swindles, which the honest practitioners of Doppersdorp
were wont to plant upon their clients in the form of "bills of costs,"
which latter it was his business to tax, nor would he connive at any
undue laxity in the matter of taking out licences, or other omissions
which might fall within his sphere. So, officially and socially, he
found scant favour in Doppersdorp.
He was seated in his office one day, doing some routine work, when the
door was flung open unceremoniously, and a voice demanded angrily in
German English--
"What is dis--what is dis?"
Roden looked up. "Dis" consisted of a sheet of blue paper, partly
printed, partly written upon, and held out between a finger and thumb of
doubtful cleanliness. At the other end of the uncleanly finger and
thumb was an ordinary-looking individual of Teutonic and generally
unwholesome aspect, bearded, and his poll thatched with a profusion of
dark bush. This worthy held the office of postmaster at Doppersdorp--an
office whose emolument was not great. Still it was something. Anybody
ambitious of incurring Sonnenberg's enmity for life had only to hint at
his being of Hebraic extraction, and indeed, if only from the horror in
which he affected to hold such suggestion, it is highly probable he was.
For the rest he had all the self-conceit of the average Teuton, who has
made, or is making, a fair success of life.
"What is dis--what is dis?" he repeated in a tone tremulous with rage,
flinging the paper upon the table. Roden picked it up.
"A summons," he said, glancing down it. "A summons, citing one Adolphus
Sonnenberg (that's yourself, isn't it?) to appear before the Resident
Magistrate on Monday next, for neglecting to comply with the Revenue
Acts, in keeping a retail shop without a licence. Perfectly correctly
drawn, I think," looking up inquiringly. "Eh, what? `Damned impudence'
did you say? Well, yes. I'm inclined to agree with you. It is--on the
part of a man who gets a civil reminder more than a week ago that he is
liable to penalties, and treats it with contempt until he is summoned in
due course, then comes bursting in here and kicks up a row, with no more
regard for the laws of decent behaviour than for those of his adopted
country. Yes. I quite agree with your definition of it. Anything
more?"
This was said blandly--suavely. The other was bursting with rage.
"Anything more?" he bellowed. "Plenty more. Wait till I see Mr Van
Stolz about it. We've known each other for years. See if he'll see me
insulted by a twopenny-halfpenny magistrate's clerk."
"Quite so. He'll be here by-and-by. Meanwhile, kindly leave my
office."
"I shall leave when I choose," was the defiant rejoinder.
"Ah, indeed!" Then, raising his voice, "Hey! Jan Kat! Come in here."
There was a shuffling of feet. The native constable, who had been
roosting in the son on the court-house steps, appeared at the door.
"Turn Mr Sonnenberg out of my office."
Just those few words--quietly spoken--no further appeal to leave. Roden
prepared to go on with his work again.
"Come, sir, you must go," said the constable.
Sonnenberg was speechless with rage. He glared first at Roden, then at
the stalwart Fingo, as though he had some thoughts of assaulting one or
both of them. To be turned out of the room ignominiously, and by a
native! It was too much of an outrage.
"Come, sir, you must leave the office," repeated the constable more
peremptorily.
Then Sonnenberg opened his mouth and there gurgled forth weird and
sonorous German oaths mingled with full-flavoured English blasphemies,
all rolling out so thick and fast as to tread upon each other's heels
and well-nigh to choke the utterer. In the midst of a forced breathing
space a voice--quick and stern--was heard to exclaim--
"What is all this about?"
Sonnenberg started. In the doorway stood the magistrate himself. But
there was that in the latter's face which sadly disconcerted the
frenzied Teuton. The ally he had reckoned on seemed to wear an
uncommonly hostile look. However, he began volubly to explain how he
had been insulted when he came in, and how the constable had been
ordered to eject him. Mr Van Stolz heard him to the end, Roden putting
in no word; then he looked at the summons, which still lay on the table,
where it had been thrown.
"Mr Sonnenberg," he said, "I can see through a brick wall as far as
most people and I don't want to be told the ins and outs of this.
Whatever you have had to put up with you have brought upon yourself.
You received a perfectly courteous letter reminding you that you had not
yet taken out your licence. You chose to take no notice of that, so Mr
Musgrave, by my instructions, drew up a summons. In coming here to talk
about it you have committed an act of gross impertinence, bordering on a
contempt of court, and if you think that you can come into these offices
for the purpose of kicking up a row, we shall soon show you your
mistake. Whatever day is set forth on the summons, that day you had
better be in court--which is all I need say in the matter. Now, you may
go."
Astounded, bewildered, snubbed down to the very dust, Sonnenberg slunk
off. The silent, absolutely indifferent contempt of Roden, was more
galling than any look of cheap triumph might have been, for the latter
had not even thought it worth while to put in one word of his version of
the story, wherein he was right. But the vindictive Jew vowed within
his heart the direst of dire vengeance did the chance ever present
itself.
"That damned Jew!" exclaimed Mr Van Stolz in his free and confidential
way, when he and his subordinate were alone together again. "You were
quite right, Musgrave. You must not stand any humbug from such fellows.
Watkins was too much hand-in-glove with them all, and they thought they
could do anything with him in the way of trying it on, but he was young.
Still, of course, it doesn't do to be too sharp on fellows. I don't
mean in this case, or any other. I'm speaking generally. That impudent
dog, Sonnenberg, got only half what he deserved. When is the case to
come on?"
"Next Monday, sir."
"So! Well, he'll be as mild as Moses then," chuckled the other.
On another occasion a worthy representative of Doppersdorp was destined
to learn that the new magistrate's clerk was not altogether born
yesterday. This was a law-agent, a bumptious, ill-conditioned fellow
named Tasker, who owed Roden a grudge for having ruthlessly taxed down
bill after bill of costs, of a glaringly extortionate nature. He,
entering the office one day, asked for twopenny revenue stamps to the
amount of two pounds sterling, which having received, he threw down a
deed.
"Stamp that, please."
Roden cast his eye down the document, and satisfied himself that the
stamp duty was precisely the amount just purchased.
"It wants a 2 pound stamp," he said.
"Just so," returned the other briskly. "Stick these on, please,"
handing him the two hundred and forty stamps, with a malicious grin.
"Stick them on yourself," was the answer.
Then Tasker began to rave. It was the duty of the Distributer of Stamps
to stamp all documents brought to him, and so forth. What did he mean?
To all of which Roden turned a deaf ear, and proceeded to occupy himself
with other matters.
"So you refuse to stamp this document!" foamed the agent at length.
"Distinctly. Do it yourself."
"We'll soon see about that." And this fool started off to the
magistrate's room to complain to that functionary that the Distributer
of Stamps refused to perform the office for which he was paid. Mr Van
Stolz, who knew his man, rose without a word and went into the clerk's
office.
"What is the meaning of this, Mr Musgrave? Mr Tasker complains that
you refuse to stamp his deed."
Roden saw the look on his chief's face that he knew so well. He
anticipated some fun.
"I refused to do so on his terms, sir," he answered; "I asked him
whether he wanted a 2 pound stamp, but he replied that I was to stick
those two hundred and forty stamps on a bit of paper that won't hold the
half of them. I ventured to think I was right in retorting that the
Government time was not to be played the fool with in that fashion."
"You're bound to stamp all deeds," struck in the agent sullenly,
realising that he was likely to undergo a severe snub for his
ill-conditioned idiocy.
"We are bound to supply you with the stamps, Mr Tasker," returned Mr
Van Stolz, "but we are not bound to lick them for you. Therefore, if
you want it done, you must do it yourself."
The agent stared, then looked foolish.
"Can I change these for a 2 pound one, then?" he growled, but quite
crestfallen.
"Well, you can this time; but we are not even bound to change them for
you, once they have been delivered. You can oblige Mr Tasker in this
way, Mr Musgrave."
"Certainly," said Roden blandly, and, the exchange being effected, the
agent departed.
"It would have served him right to have made him pay for another stamp,
Musgrave," chuckled the magistrate, when they were alone together. "But
the poor devil is generally so hard up that it's doubtful if he could
have mustered another 2 pounds."
Now the foregoing incidents were only two out of many; which went to
show that, if a man was unpopular in Doppersdorp, it was not necessarily
his own fault.
Still there were some, though few, by whom Roden was well liked. Among
these was Father O'Driscoll, the priest who shepherded the scanty and
scattered Catholic inhabitants of the town and district, a genial and
kindly-natured old man, and by reason of those qualities widely popular,
even with some of the surrounding Boers, whose traditional detestation
of the creed he represented it would be impossible to exaggerate. A
native of Cork, and in his younger days a keen sportsman, it was with
unbounded delight he discovered that the new official was well
acquainted with a considerable section of his own country and the
fishing streams thereof--and frequent were the evenings which these two
would spend together, over a steaming tumbler of punch, killing afresh
many a big salmon in Shannon, or Blackwater, or Lee. And with sparkling
eyes the old priest would disinter brown and weather-beaten fly-books,
turning over, almost reverently, the soiled parchment leaves, where
musty relics of the insidious gauds which had lured many a noble fish to
its undoing still hung together to carry back his mind to the far, far
past.