In this way they rode on in the pleasant sunshine, and eventually drew rein in front of a prettily situated though roughly built house of red brick, with thatched roof and high _stoep_. This was the abode of a Dutchman, Isaac Van Rooyen by name, and here they had arranged to stay and have dinner, for on the frontier a standing hospitality is the rule, and in travelling every one makes a convenience of his neighbour and is made a convenience of in turn. The Boer, a large corpulent man of about sixty, advanced to welcome them as the clamorous tongues of a yelping and mongrel pack gave warning of their approach, and consigning their horses to a dilapidated-looking Hottentot, they entered the house. A long, low room furnished with the characteristic plainness of such an abode; a substantial table, several chairs, on some of which none but a lunatic or an inebriate would venture to trust his proportions for a single instant. In one corner stood an ancient and battered harmonium, another contained a sewing-machine and a huge family Bible in ponderous Dutch lettering, while the walls were garnished with sundry grievous prints, high in colour and grisly in design, representing Moses destroying the Tables of the Law, Elijah and the prophets of Baal, and so on. The _vrouw_ arose from her coffee-brewing as they entered--the absorption of coffee is a _sine qua non_ in a Boer domicile on the arrival of visitors--and greeted them with stolid and wooden greeting, and a brace of great shy and ungainly damsels--exact reproductions of their mother at twenty and twenty-one--looked scared as they limply shook hands with the new-comers. But others were there besides the regular inmates, for the Naylors had arrived, as also Armitage and Allen, and our friend Will Jeffreys, and these were keeping up a laborious conversation with the worthy Boer and his ponderous _vrouw_, whose daughters, aforesaid, eat together in speechless inanity, now and again venturing a "Ja" or a "Nay" if addressed, and straightway relapsing into a spasmodic giggle beneath their _kapjes_.

"Doesn't Miss Brathwaite play?" inquired the Boer, with a glance at Ethel and then at the harmonium.

"'England expects.' Go now and elicit wheezy strains from yon venerable and timeworn fire-engine," said Claverton, in a low tone.

She drew off her gloves in a resigned manner, and was about to sit down at the despised instrument, when some one putting a book on the music-stool in order to heighten the seat, that fabric underwent a total collapse and came to the ground with a crash. Another seat was found, and she began to play--but oh! what an instrument of torture it was-- more to the performer than to the audience. Every other note stuck fast, keeping up an earsplitting and discordant hum throughout; and the bellows being afflicted with innumerable leaks, were the cause of much labour and sorrow to the player.

"I can't play on this thing," she said. "Every other note sticks down, and the bellows are all in holes, and--I won't."

Naylor explained to the Dutchman that Ethel was a great pianist but was nothing at harmoniums, which excuse covered her somewhat petulant retreat from the abominable instrument, and just then dinner was brought in. Then it became a question of finding seats, many of the chairs being _hors de combat_.

"Here you are, Allen; come and sit here," called out Armitage. In a confiding moment, and the table being full, the unsuspecting youth dropped into the seat indicated, and then--dropped on the floor, for the rickety concern forthwith "resigned," even as the music-stool had done before it. A roar of laughter went up from the incorrigible joker at the success of his impromptu trap, and Allen arose from the ruins of the chair, like Phoenix from the ashes.

"I say, though, that's better than the cruise down the river with the bee in your bonnet, isn't it, old chap?" said Armitage, exploding again.

Allen looked rather glum, and another seat, not much less rickety than the other, was found for him.

When he was settled, the Boer stood up and with closed eyes began a long, rambling oration, presumably to the Creator, which was meant for grace, and having discoursed unctuously on everything, or nothing, for the s.p.a.ce of several minutes, he set the example of falling to.

"Going up to Jim Brathwaite's for the hunt to-morrow, Oom Isaac?" asked Armitage of his host. [Note 1.]

"Ja," replied old Van Rooyen. "Can _he_ shoot?" designating Claverton-- the popular idea on the frontier being that an "imported" Briton must necessarily be an a.s.s in all things pertaining to field pursuits.

"He just can. Didn't you hear how he licked the Pexters down at my place?"

"Yes, I did hear that; I remember now;" and the Dutchman looked at Claverton with increased respect.

"But that's the fellow to bring down a buck at five hundred yards," went on Armitage, indicating Allen, who, regardless of what went on around him, was making terrific play with his knife and fork, and who, although seated next the speaker, remained in blissful unconsciousness of being the subject of any chaff, by reason of his ignorance of the Dutch language.

"Is he now? I shouldn't have thought that," was the deliberating reply; the matter-of-fact Boer not dreaming for a moment that the other was gammoning him.

And the ball of conversation rolled on, and the unseasoned stew was succeeded by a ponderous jar of quince preserve, then another lengthy grace and the inevitable coffee.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Van Rooyen, with the freedom of his countrymen, was discussing "present company."

"What a pretty girl she is!" he was saying, referring to Ethel. "Is she another of Mr Brathwaite's daughters?"

"No, a niece," replied Naylor, to whom the remark was addressed. "Her father is George Brathwaite, the M.L.A."

"'Ja,' I know him," replied the Dutchman. "He isn't a good man (in the sense of 'a good politician'). He voted against our interests in several things. But she's a pretty girl, a very pretty girl. And the Englishman's a good-looking fellow, too. Are they engaged?"

"d.a.m.ned fool!" angrily muttered Claverton, who, while talking to Ethel, had overheard the above conversation and wondered whether Ethel had too.

"What's the matter now?" said she, and the frown left his brow as the question convinced him she had not heard. But he turned and suggested to Armitage that it was time to saddle up.

"Well, yes--I think it is," replied that worthy, who was busily debating in his own mind whether it would be carrying a joke too far if he inserted a burr or p.r.i.c.kle of some sort beneath the saddle of Allen's steady-going old mare; and forthwith a general move was made for the horses, which were duly brought to the door.

"Now, Allen, old chap, keep those awful spurs of yours out of my horse's flank, or there'll be the deuce to pay," called out Armitage, as the absent-minded youth backed his steed violently into that of the speaker--whereupon a kicking match became imminent. Meanwhile Ethel was waiting to be put on her horse, and glanced half involuntarily and somewhat angrily in the direction of Claverton, who, whether by accident or of set purpose, was still on the _stoep_ beginning to fill his pipe from Van Rooyen's pouch, and apparently as ignorant of his actual ungallantry as though the fair s.e.x formed no ingredient of the party.

With concealed mortification she resigned herself to Will Jeffreys, who advanced to perform that necessary office, and eagerly seized the opportunity of riding by her side.

"Mr Armitage," she called out, speaking over her shoulder, "do tell me that story about Spoek Krantz."

Armitage ranged his horse on her unoccupied side and began his narrative, enlarging to an appalling extent as he went on.

"Don't take in all he says, Miss Brathwaite. He's cooking up a yarn for the occasion," said Jeffreys.

Armitage vehemently protested that nothing was further from his intention, but to the jocular recrimination which followed, Ethel hardly listened. She thought that Claverton should be punished for his neglect by being made to ride behind. A punishment to which, by the way, the delinquent seemed to submit with exemplary patience, for he puffed away at his pipe, discoursing placidly to Allen, whom he was just in time to prevent from inflicting himself on Laura, thereby rendering Hicks a substantial service. Nevertheless Ethel, before they had gone one-third of the way, began to wish that Armitage was less garrulously disposed, and would vacate the place to which she had summoned him, and once when he dropped behind a little to light his pipe, she half turned her head with a strange wistfulness, and her pulses beat quicker as she hoped that the hoof-strokes which she heard overtaking her were not those of _his_ steed. But they were, and as that light-hearted mortal ranged up beside her and launched out into a fresh stream of chaff and jocularity, and the end of the ride drew near, it seemed to her that the sunshine had gone out of the day, although there was not a cloud in the heavens and the whole beautiful landscape was bathed in that wondrous golden glow which precedes a South African sunset; and shall it be confessed, she felt sore and angry, and snubbed poor Jeffreys, and irritably checked the flow of Armitage's running fire of small wit, till at last they drew rein at Jim Brathwaite's house and were received by its jovial occupant in person.

"Hallo, Ethel; so you've come to help us shoot a buck. But where's your gun?" chaffed he. "Keep quiet; get away you _schelms_," he went on, shying a couple of big stones into the midst of some half-dozen huge rough-haired dogs, which rushed open-mouthed towards the equestrians, baying furiously. The rude but serviceable pack, stopped in their career, thought better of it and turned back, one of their number howling piteously, and limping from the effects of another "rock" hurled by Jim's forcible and practised hand. "Well, Arthur," as the other two came up, "we'll show you some fun to-morrow. But come inside; I'll send Klaas round to off-saddle."

Note 1. "Uncle." Among the Boers, "Oom" and "Tanta," "Uncle" and "Aunt," are used as complimentary prefixes when addressing elderly people, though these stand in no relation whatever to the speaker.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

VENATORIAL.

It is early morning, and a party of mounted men, consisting of our friends of the previous day and their genial host, is riding along the high ground away from Jim Brathwaite's homestead. All carry guns, mostly of the latest and most improved pattern, though one or two still hold to the old-fashioned muzzle-loader, and a pack of great rough-haired dogs, the same which greeted our travellers with such hostile demonstration last evening, careers around and among the party, now and then getting a paw or a tail under the horses' hoofs, and yelping and snapping in consequence. The horses step out briskly in the fresh morning air--for the sun is not yet up--which briskness will, I trow, have undergone considerable abatement when they return at the close of the proceedings, laden with a buck apiece--perchance two--and their riders to boot. And the dogs break out afresh into a mighty clamour, leaping and curvetting, and each striving to outbay his fellow as he realises more and more fully the important part which is to be his in the coming destruction; and as the full-mouthed chorus rings over hill and valley, many a graceful spiral-horned antelope starts in his dewy lair far down in the tangled brake, where yet a white curtain of mist hangs, waiting till the rising beams shall disperse it into warmth and sunshine, and listens, it may be, apprehensively to the distant baying.

"Here. Spry! Tiger! Shut up that infernal row, you brutes. A fellow can't hear himself speak!" And loosening a strap from his saddle, Jim makes a sudden cut with the buckle-end at one of the chief contributors to the shindy, who, starting back hurriedly to avoid the infliction, unwarily places his tail beneath the descending hoof of Naylor's horse, and yells in frantic and heartrending fashion for the next five minutes.

"Noisy devils, they'll scare away all the bucks in the country-side before we get near them," remarks that worthy, shading a match with his hand and lighting his pipe without reining in.

"They haven't had a hunt for some time now, you see. I've been away a good deal, and now they're letting off steam a bit," says Jim. "Hallo, Allen! Look out! If you dig your heels into that horse like that, he'll have you off as sure as his name's Waschbank."

For Allen, whose weedy nag had gone lame, is now bestriding a mount which his host has provided for him--a youthful quadruped, given to occasional bucking. And at the time of the needed warning the playful animal is going along with his back stiffly and ominously arched.

"Then it'll be a case of Allen washing the bank with his tears--to say nothing of tears--for he is bound to _rend_ his 'bags' if he falls among these stones," strikes in Armitage.

"Jack, Jack! I trust I may yet live to see you hanged," says Claverton.

"Jim, I put it to you as a man and a brother. Can any success possibly attend the steps of a hunting-party in whose midst is the perpetrator of so outrageous a sally?"

"Name isn't Sally," promptly replies the joker; "I was christened Jack, not John, mind--Jack; and Jack I'll live and die."

A laugh is evoked by this repartee, and they break into a canter, while Allen's steed, the exuberance of whose spirits is in a measure let off in the increased exercise, ceases to cause his rider more than a dormant uneasiness. And now the sun is rising slowly and majestically over the eastern hills. Birds are twittering, and the dewy gra.s.s shines beneath and around. Then the great beams dart forth over the rolling plains, bathing them in first a red, then a golden light, and the firmament is blue above, and the earth glows in a warm rich effulgence, the glory of a new-born summer day.

Seated under a bush are three persons evidently awaiting the approach of our party. Their horses saddled, and with bridles trailing on the ground, are cropping the short gra.s.s hard by. The conversation is being carried on in Dutch for the benefit of half the group, which owns to that nationality, being in fact our portly friend, Isaac van Rooyen, and one of his sons. The other one is Thorman, a bearded, surly-looking fellow, little given to conversation, but greatly addicted to the use of strong language when he does speak. He is a neighbour of Jim Brathwaite's.

"Well, Jim," began Thorman, in response to the other's greeting. "At last! We've been waiting here a whole d.a.m.ned half-hour."

"Never mind, old fellow," laughed the other, "patience is a virtue, you know--especially in these piping times."

"And you've had an opportunity of seeing a most splendid sunrise," added the incorrigible Jack.

"Sunrise be d.a.m.ned," growled Thorman, surlily.

"I thought we were to begin by sunrise, and now we've wasted half the d.a.m.ned day. Better get to work at once," and he turned away to catch his horse.

The others took no notice of his ill-humour, and chatted among themselves. Then with its fresh addition the party moved on a quarter of a mile or so lower down, where, in an open s.p.a.ce in the bush, about thirty Kafirs--boys and men--were a.s.sembled. These were the beaters, and many of them were accompanied by their dogs--slim greyhounds, rough-haired lurchers, and curs of all shapes and sizes, and of nondescript aspect. The natives stood up and saluted the new arrivals, and forthwith plans were laid for the operations.