Roden Musgrave was seated in his quarters, alone.
It was a dark, rainy night, and rather a cold one. A snug wood fire
burned in the grate, and this he was loath to leave, although it was
midnight. Yet the one more pipe which he had humbugged conscience into
allowing would prove the necessary sedative, was smoked out; nor was
there any further excuse for delaying bed. But just as he had risen to
carry out that intent, there came a knock at the back door.
The house, we have said, was a very small one--two rooms in front, which
its occupant used as bedroom and sitting-room, and two at the back, a
storeroom and kitchen, which latter he did not use, save for stowing
away lumber. There was no hall, the front and back doors opening into
the sitting-room and kitchen respectively. Towards the latter Roden now
made his way, wondering the while; for the knock had been a stealthy
one--unmistakably so--and of as faint a nature as was compatible with
audibility at all. As he paused to listen, Roden laughed grimly to
himself, deeming he could guess at its meaning, and was just turning
away to leave it unanswered when it was renewed, and with it, his ear
caught the bass whisper of a Kaffir voice. This put another light on
the case. A matter of duty might be involved.
"What do you want?" he said, suddenly throwing open the door. The light
he carried fell upon the form of a single Kaffir, who grinned.
"Why, it's Tom," went on Roden, holding the lantern to the man's face,
and recognising a particularly civil and good-humoured store-boy, in the
employ of the abominable Sonnenberg. "Well, Tom, what the deuce do you
want with me at this time of night? If it's another complaint against
your _baas_, you'll have to wait till to-morrow, my boy."
This, in allusion to a past case of disputed wages, wherein Tom had
summoned his Hebraic employer before Mr Van Stolz, and had won. Yet
Sonnenberg had still kept him in his service. Now the Kaffir grinned
and shook his head. It was no case of the kind, he declared, and his
manner was mysterious. Would the _baas_ let him come in for a little
while and talk, and above all things shut the door? He had something
very important to discuss. Roden, impressed by the mysteriousness of
his manner, complied without hesitation. Yet, in all probability, it
was some commonplace trifle. Natives were prone to blow out a frog into
an ox.
Seen in the light of the room, this mysterious midnight visitor was a
sturdy, thick-set Kaffir, of medium height, with a peculiarly open and
honest countenance. He was dressed in the ordinary slop clothes of a
store or stable-boy, more or less tattered, and more or less ingeniously
repaired with twine or bits of _reimpje_. He was a Tembu from Umfanta's
location, and knowing this, Roden was prepared for some revelation of a
possibly startling character--if true, that is--for there were extensive
Tembu locations in the district, which, though peaceful on the whole,
were not impervious to the wave of restlessness contingent upon
hostilities in the Transkei, and radiating among the tribes within the
Colonial borders.
No revelation of a dark and bloody plot, however, no intelligence of a
secret midnight rising, was destined to fall upon Roden's official ears;
for speaking in Boer Dutch with a little indifferent English, his
knowledge of both tongues being too limited to admit of the vast amount
of parable and circumlocution wherewith he would have approached the
subject in the fluency of his native language, the Kaffir readily came
to the point.
The _Baas_ had a gun, not the beautiful new one which he took out to
shoot bucks with, explained Tom, with avidity, but an old one which
loaded in the old-fashioned way. The _Baas_ wanted to sell that gun,
yet no one would buy it. He, Tom, had seen it more than once on _Baas_
Tasker's auction sale, but nobody would bid so much as a pound for it.
Now, all this was perfectly true. Roden did own such a piece, a heavy,
old-fashioned muzzle-loader, double-barrelled, an excellent gun of its
day, and shooting true as true could be with rifled or shot-barrel. But
its day had gone by. While there was a brisk demand in Doppersdorp at
that time for firearms, such must be breech-loading weapons; at
muzzle-loaders nobody would so much as look.
Even as the other had said, he had made more than one attempt to sell
that gun, but in vain. A Boer now and again would pick it up as it lay
in Tasker's auction room, and after eyeing it critically for a moment
would replace it with a melancholy shake of the head. "A good _roer_"
would be his verdict, his experienced eye taking in that much. "An
excellent _roer_ in its day, but its day is passed; we want
breech-loaders now." While some Briton of the baser sort, being a
shop-boy or waggon-wright's apprentice, with no experience whatever of
firearms, would superciliously bid "five bob for the old gas-pipe."
Remembering all this, Roden stared; for now he began to see through this
fellow's drift.
"The _Baas_ wanted to sell this gun," continued the Kaffir, but nobody
would offer anything for it. Now, why not sell it to him? No one would
be any the wiser. It was night; no one had seen him come in. That was
because he had come so late, and on a dark and rainy night.
"And what do you want to do with it, Tom, when you've got it?"
_Au_! It was not for himself. He was not in want of it. It was for
his brother. He would give ten pounds for it, ten pounds down in hard
cash.
"That settles the matter, then," said Roden, decisively, intent on
drawing him on. "If it's for your brother, I won't have any more to
say. Two in an affair of this sort is one too many. But three; oh no!
That deal won't come off, Tom."
The Kaffir looked profoundly disappointed, then muttered a little. Then
he said, with a shamefaced laugh--
"It isn't for my brother, _Baas_. That was not true. I want the gun
myself. I will give twelve pounds for it. See, I have the money."
He produced a tied-up rag, an exceedingly dirty and greasy rag, and
shook it. The result was a clinking sound, the solid, metallic,
comfortable clink of hard gold.
"I can't sell it to you, Tom," said Roden again, thinking the while how
he only wished to the Lord he could.
"Look, _Baas_," went on the Kaffir eagerly, his fingers quivering
nervously in their hurry, as they struggled with the knots of the greasy
rag. "Here is the money; I will give it all. I will give fifteen
pounds for the gun; but I can offer no more, for I have no more. Here
it is--all."
He had untied the knots of the rag, and was eagerly counting forth its
contents upon an old packing case. There they lay, fifteen bright
sovereigns, glittering in the light of the lantern.
Roden Musgrave wanted money just as much as the average junior Civil
Servant habitually does, or for the matter of that the average senior
either. He had repeatedly tried to realise the old muzzle-loader, and
had at length given it up in disgust. As the other had said, nobody
would bid so much as a pound for it. And here was an offer of fifteen
sovereigns for it--fifteen sovereigns in hard cash, lying there to be
picked up. Of course he knew perfectly well what it was wanted for, but
equally did he know that the average Kaffir is so wretched a shot as to
be unable to hit a house, unless he were first dropped down the chimney
thereof. If this fool, bursting with martial ardour, chose to steal
away and join the hostile tribes, he was pretty certain to get bowled
over himself, but it was a hundred to one against him being marksman
enough to inflict any damage upon the Colonial ranks. Indeed, were it
otherwise, what was it to him, Roden? No unit of the extremely limited
number in whose well-being he had the faintest interest was at that
moment at the front, or was in the least likely to go. "Why should he
refuse a good offer, a very good offer?"
He looked at the fifteen sovereigns lying there in a row, and he looked
at the Kaffir who was eagerly watching him. The boy had an open, honest
face, and might safely be trusted to hold his tongue. Besides, Kaffirs
usually keep faith in a fair and straightforward transaction between man
and man. A moment more, and he would have concluded the deal, when his
instincts of prudence and caution put before him one consideration. He
dared not.
Looked at from the lowest grounds, he dared not. Were the transaction
brought home to him, it would mean his ruin. He would be ignominiously
dismissed his post, and probably proceeded against criminally, into the
bargain: result, a ruinous fine, the possibility even of imprisonment
without that doleful option. Even the suspicion of such a thing would
mean a bar to all his official prospects. Fifteen golden sovereigns
were good, but not good enough as a set-off against so tremendous a
risk, and the same would apply to six times the sum were it offered.
"I can't do it, Tom," he said, his mind now as thoroughly made up as
ever it had been in his life. "The fact is, I dare not."
The other was woefully disappointed. He could not offer more for he had
not another farthing in the world. As for any risk he said, he would
rather die than break faith by letting out one word on the subject of
the transaction to any living soul--white, black, or yellow. Let the
_Baas_ cast his eyes backward. Who was there who could say anything
against his character, or adduce one single instance of him ever having
broken his word? He had been long in Doppersdorp, and had served more
than one master; yet no one had anything but good to say about him,
except, perhaps, the one he was then serving.
"I tell you, Tom, I can't do it," repeated Roden. "Do you know you are
asking me to break the law, which I am here to help administer? Look,
now! If you can get the magistrate to give a permit, it's another
thing, though even then I should bring a pretty hornet's nest about my
ears were the matter known. But you are about as likely to find a
magistrate who will consent to sign a permit for the sale of a gun to a
Kaffir, while there's war going on between the Colony and that Kaffir's
fellow-countrymen as you are to find a Bushman Hottentot who would
refuse to get drunk if you made him a present of a bucketful of brandy.
I can't do it, Tom. Wait, though; why don't you get your master, _Baas_
Sonnenberg, to sell you one. He'd sell you a grin of a sort--or his
immortal soul, if he's got one--for fifteen sovereigns cash. Try him.
Besides, I should be delighted to have him chocked into the _tronk_ for
`gun-running.' Try him, Tom," he went on, banteringly sneering, as he
saw the other start and his face light up eagerly at this reference to
Sonnenberg. "Well now, that deal is off, clean off, you understand, so
pick up your money again and clear, for it's getting precious late.
Here's a bit of tobacco for you."
The Kaffir picked up the coins in silence, tying them up in the greasy
rag as before.
"Fifteen pounds is a lot of money," went on Roden, "and to-morrow you'll
be only too glad I didn't take your offer when you find you still have
the money, instead of going away to get shot like the rest of your
people."
"_Au_!" exclaimed the fellow half to himself, yet looking up briskly as
though a new and bright idea had dawned upon him in the words. "When I
find I still have the money," he repeated, as he took his leave.
But as he went out, a dark figure, which had been crouching outside
against the door throughout the whole of this interview, rose and glided
rapidly round the corner, unperceived by Roden Musgrave.
Outside, in the black and rainy street, the Kaffir made his way swiftly
towards his master's dwelling, which was odd at that time of night,
because he slept at the town location half a mile in the contrary
direction, and as he went, closely followed by the stealthy figure, he
kept repeating in his own language the words: "When I find I still have
the money in the morning... Only too glad. _Yau_!"
With this ejaculation he stopped short. In the dark and rainy silence
the full force of the idea flashed upon him in all its brightness. The
result was that he turned, and bent his steps in the direction of his
habitual sleeping quarters.
Hardly had he gone ten yards before he was met by the figure which had
been following him. Seen in the gloom it was that of a man, a Kaffir,
of about the same height and build as Tom himself. The latter, however,
showed no surprise or alarm at this sudden meeting, for the two walked
together side by side, the low rumble of their bass voices mingling in
converse, together with frequent bursts of half-suppressed but clearly
inextinguishable laughter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now in the office or den devoted to the shadiest of his transactions--
and he was wont to deal in some very shady transactions--sat Adolphus
Sonnenberg, with an expectant, but very evilly exultant expression of
countenance, and this increased as the minutes went by. With him also
sat Lambert.
Between them was a bottle of grog, glasses, and a biscuit tin, eke a box
of cigars. The expression of Lambert's face was akin to that on the
more abominable countenance of the Jew. Both were waiting, for
something, for somebody; the most casual spectator might have seen that
at a glance.
"Do you think he'll tumble?" the doctor was saying--not for the first
time. "Do you think he'll fall into the hole?"
"Tumble? Fall into de hole? I should rather think he would," was the
emphatic reply. "These beggarly Civil Servants are all so damn hard up,
they'd sell their souls for fifteen pounds. And I know Musgrave would."
"Steady, steady! No names," warned the other, glancing furtively
around.
"I don't care a damn. Ha, ha! we shall see who will sing small now!
Ha, ha! Musgrave, my boy, we shall see who has de crow this time. We
shall see you in your own dock to-morrow, or de next day. Then de
_tronk_, for he'll never be able to pay de lumping fine they'll have to
put on him; a beggarly out-at-elbows rip, for all de side he crowds on."
And the expression on the face of the evil Jew was now simply
demoniacal. "That devil, Tom, ought to be back by now!" he went on,
glancing again at the time. "A quarter to one, by Jove!"
Both sat on, ill at ease and talking constrainedly, the one gloating
over the sure accomplishment of a diabolical revenge, the other
anticipating his chances when this all-powerful rival should be once and
for all removed from his path. Still the hands of the clock moved on
and on; still nobody came.
"I can't stand this any longer," said Sonnenberg at last, jumping from
his seat, when nearly another hour had gone by. "Have another liquor,
doctor, and then we'll prowl out and see if we can see anything of Tom."
"Is it wise? Apart from the possibility of missing him, is it wise, in
view of the tremendous rumpus this affair will make, for us to be seen
prowling around together at this time of night? Remembering, too, that
Tom is your boy?"
The Jew answered with a snarl of rage, recognising the force of what the
other said. Then, after a little further waiting, he could stand it no
longer, and the pair sallied forth.
Carefully, in the darkness they reconnoitred Roden Musgrave's modest
abode, but all was quiet, all as usual. Then they patrolled the
township, no lengthy task. But of the defaulting Tom, not a sign.
"I feel like ripping his black hide off him in the morning," snarled
Tom's master savagely. "Well, he may have mistaken my orders about
returning to report to-night, and if he's brought the job off all right,
that'll put things more than square. And I'm certain he has."
"Let's hope so, anyhow," replied Lambert. And hoping being all they
could do for the present, the worthy pair separated for the night.