On the Heels of De Wet | Page 8

As the Intelligence officer, awed by the great solitude of the sleeping veldt, stood musing on its fringe, a voice hailed out of the darkness--
"What ho! Whose column is that?"
A moment more and a mounted man cantered up, and a young Africander threw himself out of the saddle.
"Whose column?" asked the new-comer.
"The New Cavalry Brigade!"
"Not Henniker's?"
"No; who are you?"
"I'm one of Rimington's Tigers.[4] I'm attached to Henniker's column, and I've been sent down here to round up a man who lives about these parts!"
"Have you got him?"
"No. Who may you be? Have you got a match?"
The Intelligence officer felt in his pocket, and an inspiration came to him as he fumbled for the matches.
"How did you see me? I never saw you, and you were against the sky-line."
"A cigar is a big beacon, old chap!" Then the Tiger struck a light, and for the first time realised that he was talking to an officer. "Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought that you were a civilian."
In the short life of the match each had taken stock of the other,--the one, a pleasant-faced Imperial officer, the other a hard-bitten Colonial. The Intelligence officer was the first to speak.
"Do you speak Dutch and Kaffir?"
"I do."
"Are you in a giant hurry to get back to Henniker's?"
"I'm not wearing myself out with anxiety."
"Well, look here, we shall probably meet Henniker in the course of the next few days. Come along with us till we strike your column. I am Intelligence officer of this brigade, and I want to get together some sort of an Intelligence gang to-night. We start at 4.30 to-morrow morning."
"In what capacity do you want me?"
"As my chief guide. Do you know this country?"
"I have often been through it; but I'll soon find some one who does. Have you got any boys?"[5]
"Not a soul. I've only just this moment arrived!"
"Well, we must have boys. Where are we to go?"
"To Britstown."
"Then we want a white guide and at least four boys. Yes, I'll come, sir. What's the force?"
"It's an embryo brigade; but when we get it together it will be quite a handsome force--three regiments and six guns!"
"Any Colonials?"
"Yes, the Mount Nelson Light Horse."
"Never heard of them, but you now want to raise these boys. What kind of a man are you? Do you go straight in up to the elbows, or do you play about in kid gloves?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, will you come down to a farm over there, and back me up in everything that I do? We can get all we want there!"
"I'll back you up in everything that is in accordance with the exigencies of the service."
"Which means----?"
"That I don't wear kid gloves----?"
"Come along, then; we'll soon round up a gang!"
* * * * *
A quarter of a mile brought the two men to the enclosure of a little Karoo homestead, nestling in a hollow in the veldt. The Tiger was leading his pony, and after he had tied it to the rail outside, they walked boldly up to the verandah. They were greeted by an excited dog, and a minute later the door was opened by a tall cadaverous-looking youth.
"What do you want?"
The Tiger answered in Dutch. The farmer had evidently seen him before, as he bridled angrily.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" came the answer. "You have come back again. Well, I am sorry we have no forage for you!"
"It is not forage I want. Where is your father? Here is an officer who must see the 'boss.'"
"I tell you the 'boss' is not here. But will not the officer come in. Good evening, mister, come in here. I will bring a light!"
The two men were shown into a sitting-room, and the youth disappeared. A moment later a slender girl of about seventeen whisked into the room with a lamp, put it on the table, and disappeared. But the light had shone upon her just long enough to show that she was very comely. The true Dutch type. Flaxen hair, straight forehead and nose, beautiful complexion, and faded blue eyes. The farm evidently belonged to people of some substance. The room, after the manner of the Dutch, was well furnished. Ponderously decorated with the same lack of proportion which is to be found in an English middle-class lodging-house. Harmonium and piano in opposite corners,--crude chromos and distorted prints upon the walls; artificial flowers, an?mic in colouring and glass-protected, on the shelves; unwieldy albums on the table; coarse crotchet drapings on the chairs; the Royal Family in startling pigments as an over-mantel. For the moment one might have fancied that it was Mrs Scroggins's best parlour in Woburn Square.
After considerable whispering in the passage, the mother of the family, supported by two grown daughters and three children with wide-opened eyes, marched into the room.
"Good evening," and there