years ago I shot partridge with father-he was home that autumn; and last year I was grouse-shooting with our cousins, the Forsters, in Northumberland.
"By the way, uncle," he went on, "I've brought out a sporting Martini-Henry rifle, as you told me. That and the ammunition are packed up in the long case with my saddlery and the rest of my outfit. Here's my shot-gun," he continued, taking down a gun-case from the rack above, undoing it, and extracting from it a handsome double-barrel. "It's a beauty, isn't it? Father gave it me two years ago on my birthday. It's a 'Cogswell and Harrison,' and a first-rate shooter."
Mr. Blakeney was a keen sportsman, and naturally took an interest in every kind of firearm. He took the gun, which Guy had meanwhile put together, examined it carefully, handled it, balanced it, and standing up in the first-class carriage, which they had to themselves, put it up to his shoulder two or three times.
"Yes, it's a very pretty gun, well built and finished, Guy," he remarked. "You'll have plenty of opportunity of using it at Bamborough. We have lots of feathered game: partridges, pheasants (both of them a kind of francolin), koorhaan-that is, bustards-of various kinds, and numbers of wild guinea-fowl. Then there are plover, "dikkop," and so forth; sand-grouse, wild fowl, when the rains fall and the pans and vleis are full, and various other odds and ends."
"My word, uncle," said Guy eagerly, "this is splendid news. I'm especially fond of bird-shooting, and I had no idea you had all this variety."
Meantime, Mr. Blakeney had in his turn been looking for a gun-case, which he extracted, after no little trouble, from under the seat. He took out his keys, opened the case, and quickly put together a light small-bore sporting rifle.
"Here's a little surprise I had in store for you, Guy," he said. "We have a deal of time to put in on this journey, and I may as well make the best of it. This is one of the newest small-bore magazine rifles, a sporting Mannlicher, which an old friend of mine, who has tested it, tells me is the best weapon he knows for all kinds of buck up to a hartebeest or koodoo, or even an eland. I sent down to George Rawbone of Cape Town to get it out from England for me. Tom and I each have a Lee-Metford .303 sporting rifle. This, I believe, is even better. It's from Holland and Holland in Bond Street, and it ought to be a good one. There you are, my boy," he added, putting it into his nephew's hands. "I hope you'll like it, and will shoot many a head of game with it. I've got plenty of ammunition for you."
Guy's face had lit up with pleasure as his uncle handed him the weapon.
"It's awfully good of you, uncle," he said; "I can't thank you enough. It's a lovely rifle," he continued, as he handled the weapon and tried the mechanism. "If I can't shoot with that, I deserve to be shot myself. I've heard one of our fellows talk of the Mannlicher. His father shoots red deer with it in Scotland, and he says it's a splendid rifle. I'm afraid my Martini-Henry, with its black powder, will have its nose rather put out of joint by this beauty."
"No, I don't think so," replied his uncle. "You will find the Martini still a very useful rifle, although, compared with the new smokeless powder weapons, it produces a lot of smoke, makes a big noise, and has a nasty kick. Some day, when you go into the hunting veldt, you will find it a very good second rifle in reserve; and it's always well to have a spare arm in case anything goes wrong with your first choice and favourite. The Martini bullet delivers a heavy, smashing blow; and I'm not sure whether for lion, leopard, and elephant, and giraffe and the heavier game, I should not still prefer it."
They presently crossed the Orange River, and passed into Griqualand West. Kimberley was reached and left behind; in no great while they passed Fourteen Streams, and entered the rolling grass-veldt country of British Bechuanaland. Vryburg, the little capital of this colony, was presently left behind; and, a hundred miles farther north, they alighted, after their long journey, at Mafeking. Here they stayed the night at Dixon's Hotel.
Mafeking still showed some faint remnants of the excitement which had overtaken it when, some ten months earlier, Dr. Jameson and his raiders had marched from that neighbourhood on their madcap and ill-starred attempt upon the Transvaal. That evening, after dinner, Guy heard occasional references to that period, which interested him not a little. He saw, too, for the first time, some Transvaal Boers, who were in the town selling stock and buying various things that they required. Guy watched these men with a curious and a critical eye. So these were the people with whom England for a hundred years had had so much trouble and so many difficulties. As he watched the big burly fellows-slack and loose-limbed and clumsy they seemed to him, with their rough corduroy clothes, loose trousers, short jackets, slouch hats, great beards, and generally unkempt appearance-it was hard to realize that these were the men who had defeated British troops at Majuba Hill, Laing's Nek, and other places.
He listened to their thick guttural language with astonished interest.
"What a strange lingo," he said to his uncle quietly, after the latter had been discussing cattle and crops with some of the Transvaalers.
"Yes," replied Mr. Blakeney, "it's a queer patois till you get accustomed to it. But you'll have to pick it up, uncouth as it sounds. One can hardly get on in this country without it. All the natives who work for Europeans speak it; and what with transport-riders and Dutch farmers all over the place-most of whom can hardly speak a word of English-one finds it absolutely necessary to acquire Boer Dutch."
"All right, uncle," said Guy, with his usual keenness, "I'll begin as soon as you like."
"Very well," rejoined Mr. Blakeney; "Tom and I will be your tutors. You will not be long before you pick up a fair colloquial knowledge of the language. After all, many of the words are practically identical with much of our Lowland Scotch. Kist, the word for chest, for example, is identical with the Scottish word. Lang stands for long in both countries. Kloof, a ravine, is the same as the Lowland cleugh. Pat means path or road, and so on. Their word spoor, which means tracks or footprints, is identical with an old-fashioned provincial word still in use in England. Otter hunters, for example, often call it the spur of an otter, when they see the prints of these animals in the smooth mud or sand of a riverside."
Mr. Blakeney had had his Cape cart and four horses sent in to meet them, and next morning at dawn they started on the forty-mile drive south-westward which was to land them at Bamborough Farm. Taking with them their gunnery and some ammunition, as well as Mr. Blakeney's and Guy's portmanteaus, they left behind the rest of Guy's kit and impedimenta, which were to be sent on, with some goods and farm implements, by ox-wagon. Having driven for some two and a half hours, they outspanned for breakfast. Peetsi, Mr. Blakeney's Bechuana groom, quickly collected some thorn wood and made a fire; they cooked a kettle of coffee, fried some tinned sausages in a tiny saucepan, got out bread, butter, and a tin of marmalade, and made an excellent meal. Never, thought Guy, had he enjoyed a breakfast so much. Meanwhile the horses, on being unharnessed, had indulged in the invariable roll which all Cape nags make a point of on being off-saddled or outspanned, and were knee-haltered. This operation was closely observed by Guy, at his uncle's suggestion. It is an extremely useful one, which any newcomer to the South African veldt ought to make himself master of. Knee-haltered, the horse can graze comfortably, yet cannot wander far away. Guy watched Peetsi's operations, and then, after one or two vain attempts, secured two of the horses himself.
"Well done, Guy!" said his uncle approvingly. "Nothing like picking up these things as soon as possible. You'll do, I can see. Once a man learns how to knee-halter a nag, he never forgets it. It's like running or skating, or riding or dancing-once mastered, never forgotten."
The horses were given a feed of forage, which consists of the ears and stalks of oats cut up and eaten together-"oat-hay" some people call it-and then grazed for half an hour in the long grass veldt. The sun was becoming hot, and the travellers now doffed their coats and went, as most people do up-country, in their shirt sleeves.
Presently they inspanned again and drove off. Now they were approaching a belt
