"Here! Hi! you two Johnny Raws! What the devil are you doing there,
tramping down all my green mealies? Get out of that, will you?" And a
volley of curses emphasised the injunction, as the speaker hurried up to
the scene of the damage.
The latter was a good-sized mealie patch adjoining the roadside, through
whose battered and broken-down fence had plunged a horse--a stubborn and
refractory horse withal, whose shies and plunges sorely tried the
equilibrium of his unskilled rider. That rider was no other than our
friend Harry Maitland. Gerard, who was a better horseman, had kept his
steed in the road, and was shouting encouragement to his comrade, who,
hot and fagged with a long ride on a somewhat rough animal, now found it
all he could do to keep his seat.
The aggrieved proprietor's voice rose to a perfect yell of fury as he
gained the spot and noted the havoc wrought. Mealie stalks were
snapping off short, one after the other, and a broad, trampled, and
broken patch, as if the place had been roughly mown, marked the passage
of the horse. Mad with rage, he picked up a stone.
"Here, drop that, will you?" cried Gerard, warningly.
Too late. The stone whizzed, and striking the horse on the hind
quarters, caused that quadruped to kick out wildly. Harry was deposited
in a face among the broken stalks, while his steed, thus relieved, tore
away snorting and kicking--crashing through the standing crop with a
diabolical indifference to the feelings of its owner which made the
latter foam again.
"Come out of that!" he raved, as poor Harry began ruefully and rather
gingerly to pick himself up. "Come out of it. I'll have twenty pound
out of you for this little bit of fun. But first of all I'm going to
give you the biggest licking you ever had in your life, you
spick-and-span popinjay masher!"
"We'll see about that part of the business," said Gerard, who, seeing
the hostile turn of affairs, had dismounted and hitched his bridle to a
convenient rail. "If there's going to be any fighting, it'll have to be
done fair, you understand."
"What the blazes have you got to say to it anyhow?" cried the man,
turning to Gerard, but with something of the light of battle gone out of
his unprepossessing countenance as he took in the well-knit frame and
determined aspect of his younger opponent.
"Just this," said Gerard. "My chum there's shaken by his fall, and I
doubt if he's much good with his fists or a match for you. So if
there's any licking to be done, just start here. See?"
But the man apparently did not see. He hesitated, staring at the
speaker, his features working with rage. He was a hard-looking customer
of about forty, with shifty eyes and a shaggy sandy beard. His raiment
withal was slovenly, consisting of moleskin trousers none too clean, a
collarless flannel shirt, also none too clean, and a slouch hat.
"Why don't you fence your confounded mealie-field, or whatever you call
it?" said Gerard, angrily, for although a good-tempered fellow he had
all the average young Englishman's objection to being bullied or crowed
over. "You deserve all that's happened for keeping a place like that
practically unfenced, for one can't call that broken-down thing a fence.
And right by the roadside, too! Shouldn't wonder if it was left that
way on purpose."
The man yelled out a fresh torrent of blasphemy. The last remark had
all-unwittingly hit the right nail on the head. That mealie patch was a
source of revenue to its owner beyond the mere value of its crop. But
he hesitated to come to close quarters.
"Fence or no fence," he shouted, "I'm going to have twenty pound out of
that paper-collared, monkey-headed son of a bandbox. His brute of a
horse has done more than twice that amount of damage. So shell out,
Shiny-boots!"
Harry, to whom this remark was addressed, though, as his comrade had
said, somewhat shaken by his fall, was quite alive to the situation. He
realised what a tower of strength lay in Gerard's thews and sinews, and
was not at all unwilling that his comrade should fight his battles for
him. So he answered with a spirit born of that confidence.
"Keep your confounded cheek to yourself, you dirty-looking clodhopper.
Twenty pounds! Why, I'll summon you for shying stones at me and
starting off my horse. And if he's lost you'll have to pay for him."
"Look here," said Gerard, "if you think you've any claim upon us, we are
staying in Maritzburg, at the Imperial. I'll give you our names and
addresses, and you can do what you like. But we are not going to stick
fooling around here all day."
"Oh, you're not, eh? We'll soon see about that." And turning, he began
bawling out something in a language they did not understand.
A house stood back from the road. This building they had at first
hardly noticed. Now, from around it, a swarm of natives were pouring,
about a dozen of whom, leaving the rest, came running down to the scene
of the dispute.
"This is getting serious," said Gerard to himself. "I'm afraid we're in
for a ripe old row."
The natives had surrounded our two friends. They were mostly
well-set-up, stalwart fellows, some clad in European clothes, others
wearing only the _mutya_, a sort of apron which hangs from the loins
before and behind. All carried sticks.
The white man was haranguing them vehemently in their own tongue--in
fact, binding them to his interests by promises of grog and tobacco.
Gerard cast an eager glance up and down the long riband of dusty road,
over the shimmering expanse of sun-baked _veldt_. But in vain. No help
need be looked for from outside. He resolved to make one more appeal to
reason.
"Look here," he began.
But the other stopped him short.
"Shut up. We don't want any more _indaba_. Are you going to fork out
or are you not? because, if not, we are going to take your horse and
yourselves too. There are enough of us, you see."
"Possibly there are," said Gerard. "But before you attempt anything
foolish, just hear what I've got to say. My name's Ridgeley, and--"
"Eh? What!" The other was staring at him open-mouthed now. "What did
you say your name was?"
"Ridgeley--Gerard Ridgeley," was the reply, in some astonishment at the
sadden transition in the other's demeanour.
"Why on earth didn't you say so before?"
"Well, I tried to, but you wouldn't let me get in a word edgeways.
Isn't there a Mr Anstey living somewhere about here? Umjilo is the
name of his place, I believe."
"Quite right, Gerard, quite right. There is. _I'm_ Mr Anstey, and
yonder's Umjilo"--pointing to the house before referred to. "And so
you're young Ridgeley! Well, well!"
Gerard started and stared, then stared again. His countenance exhibited
surprise, relief, amazement, but no satisfaction; relief at this
fortunate termination of their difference, yet a profound sense of
disappointment. That this seedy, disreputable-looking rowdy should turn
out to be the relative of whom he was in search was something of a
shock, and that such a specimen as this should have it in its power to
advance his prospects in life seemed incredible. His hopes sank to
zero.
"Lord, now, to think of that!" went on Anstey. "And to think how near
we came to punching each other's heads! You'd never have dreamt it, eh,
Gerard? I'm a bit of a rough chap, I'm afraid. Years of this cursed
country and climate are apt to touch up a man's temper and liver; but I
mean no harm--bless you, no. We haven't shaken hands yet."
Gerard reddened, as he came to himself, and held out his hand eagerly.
Young as he was, his natural acumen had detected a false ring underlying
the assumed heartiness of the other's speech, and he feared by his
manner to show it.
"Now, introduce your friend. Ah, very sorry, sir, we should have had
any difference of opinion. Shake hands and forget all about it. I'll
soon have your horse brought back. And now, come round to the house and
have some dinner. It's a bit rough, maybe, but very much at your
service."
The almost deferential tone of this apology completely availed to salve
Harry Maitland's wounded dignity, and he began to see in his whilom foe,
but now prospective host, an uncommonly sensible fellow, shrewd enough
to appreciate to a hair his own sense of self-importance. The natives,
with many surprised ejaculations over this unlooked-for turn events had
taken, dispersed by twos and threes, not, however, before Anstey had
despatched a couple of them to hunt up the runaway steed.
"Come on up to the house," he went on. "I dare say you've learnt not to
expect much by this time--not much in the way of comfort, that is. When
did you land?"
"Only a few days ago," answered Gerard. "We came straight on here at
once. Travelled up to Maritzburg in a waggon, chartered a horse apiece,
and came out to find you."
"Travelled up in a waggon, did you say? Whose waggon?"
"John Dawes's. A rattling good chap. Do you know him?"
"Used to. But, between you and me, Gerard, he's not really much of a
chap. Did he--er--seem to know me?"
The covert anxiety of the tone brought back to Gerard's mind the queer
expression which the mention of his relative had called up to the
transport-rider's face. Still it was possible that the two men had but
quarrelled. At the same time, do what he would he could not quite
overcome a growing aversion to Anstey. This was hardly promising for
their future relationship.
"This is my crib," said Anstey, as they approached the house. "The
store's at the back. We'll go round and look at it presently. Come in;
come in."
The house was a rough, square, one-storeyed building, roofed over with
corrugated iron. A low _stoep_ ran round the front of it, and the door
opened into the sitting-room direct, without the intervention of any
entrance hall. The floor was of hard clay covered with matting, and the
furniture of the very plainest. Accommodation seemed strictly limited,
for besides the room which did duty as the proprietor's bedroom there
was only one other, and it was half full of lumber of every description.
The whole of the back part of the house was used for the trading store,
and from this came a foetid and pungent whiff, mingled with the deep
bass hum of native voices.
While they dined--on a baked shoulder of mutton, with pumpkin and sweet
potatoes--Anstey questioned his young guests somewhat profusely as to
their plans and prospects. Gerard, whose rising aversion had engendered
in him suspicions of which he was more than half ashamed, fancied he
detected a slight change of manner on his host's part, as he frankly
avowed his own utter lack of prospects or means, and a corresponding
increase of cordiality towards Harry Maitland, who was not prone to
underrate himself or his possessions.
"I remember your mother perfectly well, Gerard," said Anstey. "But I
never saw your father. So they shipped you off to shift for yourself,
eh? Well, we must see what can be done for you. And what are your
plans, Maitland?"
"Oh, I must first go round and look up a lot of people I've got
introductions to," was the airy reply. "Nothing like looking around a
bit before making up one's mind, eh?"
"Quite right, quite right," nodded their host approvingly, inking
another glass of grog, which, by the way, was the sixth he had taken
since he came in. Then he proposed they should light their pipes and
stroll round and look in at the store.
The latter was a long low room, with a counter running through it.
This, as also the shelves lining the walls, was covered with goods--
blankets and rugs, canisters of coffee and sugar, brass wire and bangles
and every species of native "track," biscuit and paraffin tins. Strings
of beads of every conceivable hue, overcoats, and flannel shirts, and
moleskin trousers hung from pegs, and clusters of _reims_, or raw-hide
thongs--for rope is but little used in South Africa--in fact, half a
hundred varieties of the genus "notion" for supplying the needs of
customers, native or white.
The room was pretty full of tobacco smoke and natives, who suspended
their conversation and nudged each other as they recognised the two
young strangers against whom their aid had been invoked for hostile
purposes, but who were now hand in glove with the proprietor behind the
counter. A lanky youth in shirt-sleeves, with a mud-coloured, wispy
face, was presiding over the transactions.
"Well, Smith, how's `biz'?" said Anstey. The wispy youth shrugged his
shoulders and growled some inarticulate reply in monosyllable. Then, on
being introduced to the new-comers, he extended a limp paw to each, and
returned to his former occupation of measuring out roll tobacco to a
native, always with the same wooden and vacant expression.
"Well, how do you think you'd like storekeeping?" said Anstey, as he
went through the performance which he jocosely termed "showing them
round the place," though, apart from a tumble-down stable and the
historic mealie-field before described, there was no "place" to show
them round.
Gerard, the recollection fresh in his mind of the dismal room and foetid
atmosphere, and the generally depressing aspect of all connected
therewith, replied, with an inward shudder, that he hardly thought he
would care about it. He would much prefer farming. This was greeted as
a huge joke.
"Pooh!" said Anstey. "Farming is a beggar's trade compared with this.
Why, bless my soul, a farmer's a slave to all the seasons, to every
shower of rain, or the want of it, even if his place and stock ain't
mortgaged up to the hilt. Again, the diseases among cattle are legion.
Now, in a neat little store like this of mine, you can just coin money
hand over fist."
His listeners thought this last statement hardly borne out by the aspect
of the surroundings in general. The other, quick to see this, went on.
"Ah, you think it don't look much like it, eh? Well, I don't wonder.
But, you see, it isn't worth my while bothering about tinkering up this
place. Here it doesn't matter how one lives. But I'm just waiting till
I've made my pile, and then--" And the concluding blank left scope for
the most magnificent, if somewhat vague possibilities.
They returned indoors, and Anstey made the heat and the walk an excuse
for another glass of grog. Then a native knocked at the door to
announce that the missing steed had been found and brought back. Harry
suggested that it was time to start on their return ride to Maritzburg.
But of this their host would not hear.
"Stay the night, anyhow," he said. "That is, if you don't mind roughing
it. I can knock you up a shakedown of some sort. I meant to have had
the spare room arranged when I first heard you were coming out, Gerard.
But I dare say you can manage without white sheets."
Gerard, of course, declared that, if anything, he rather preferred it.
That point settled, Anstey became even more the effusively genial host;
but, with all his desire to be entertaining, both were sensible of a
want of something--a difference between the perfectly frank and
self-possessed geniality of John Dawes, for instance. They were joined
at supper by the wispy-faced youth, who came straight in from his duties
in the store--now closed for the night--without going through any such
superfluous ceremony as washing. Afterwards, when the talk was in full
swing, Anstey would constantly appeal to his subordinate for
confirmation of his statements or anecdotes--"Isn't that so, Smith?"
"Didn't I, Smith?" and so forth; whereupon the latter would remove his
pipe from his mouth, and spit and remark, "_Ja_, that's so." Which was
the full extent of his conversation.