On the Heels of De Wet | Page 9

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, anæmic
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 was a limp handshake all round.
The attitude and expression of the good dame was combative. She was
stout, slovenly, and forty. And the first impression was that she had
once been what her pretty daughter was now at seventeen. There is
nothing of the beauty of dignified age in the Dutch woman past her
prime.
"Where is your man?"[6] asked the Tiger.
"He has gone to Richmond to sell the scaapen."[7]
"And your sons?"

"I have no sons."
The Tiger threw open the photograph album on the table, and put his
finger on a recent photo of two hairless youths in bandoliers. The
likeness to the good lady in front of us was unmistakable.
"Who are these?"
"My sister's children," came the glib answer.
"Good," said the Tiger, as he slipped the photograph out. "I shall keep
this. Who is the young man who opened the door."
"Bywoner."[8]
"Good; then he can come along with us. How many boys have you on
this farm?"
"They have all gone with my man."
"All right, I am going round to see--bring a candle. All right, don't
make a fuss, my good lady. Don't take that lamp; the officer will stay
here while I go out."
The stout frau produced a piece of paper, and laid it on the table with
all the confidence of a poker-player displaying a Royal Flush. The
Tiger picked it up and read:--
"This is to certify that Hans Pretorius can be implicitly trusted to give
all assistance to the military authorities. He has furnished the required
assurances.
"(Signed) L----, Resident Magistrate."
The Tiger held the slip of paper and photograph side by side for a
moment, and then slowly lit the former in the flame of the lamp. The
women and children stood solemnly and watched the blaze. Only the
pretty girl showed any emotion. The faded blue of her eyes seemed to
darken. She said something. It sounded like "hands opper."[9] How the

Dutch hate the English Africander!
The Tiger only laughed as he said, "You wait here, sir, while I go round
the premises. Come along, Mrs Pretorius."
The Intelligence officer had not been alone five minutes before the door
opened and the pretty daughter appeared with a glass of milk on a tray.
The look of indignation had disappeared--a smile lurked on the pretty
features. Now the Intelligence officer was tired and thirsty--a glass of
milk was most refreshing. Moreover, he was an Englishman--a pretty
face was not without its charms for him.
The Daughter. "Please, sir, the Kharki[10] is taking Stephanus with
him. You will not let him do that. There will be no one left to look after
the farm and to protect us from the boys."
Intelligence Officer. "Who is Stephanus?"
D. "He does not stay here; he is" (then the blue eyes filled with
tears)--"he is--my sweetheart!"
I. O. (softening) "But we will not hurt him; you will have him back in a
few days."
D. "Who can say? You are going to make him fight, and then I shall
never see him again. Oh, please, sir, don't take him" (and a hand--a fair
dimpled hand--rested on the Intelligence officer's sleeve).
I. O. (moving uncomfortably) "I am afraid that I must; but no harm
shall come to him, that I promise!"
D. "But he doesn't know the way, and you will shoot him if he shows
you a wrong road."
I. O. "He will know all that we want him to know."
D. "Where will you want him to take you? I know he doesn't know the
way."

I. O. "Why, he has only to go to Britstown!"
D. (the tears drying) "And you promise me that you will not harm
him?"
I. O. "Of course I won't."
D. "Oh, thank you." She was gone, and the Intelligence officer was left
to his own thoughts. It had slipped out unawares. He had been caught:
he realised that much as