too tired, and it isn’t nonsense. He’s always on the lookout for bits of iron and broken crockery. I took a hammer and a cracked willow-pattern plate one day, and broke it up in bits and fed him with them. He ate them all.”
“Well, of course: birds do pick up stones and things to fill their gizzards.”
“And that’s just how I feel,” said Dyke.
“Eh? How?”
“As if my gizzard was filled with sharp bits of stone, and it makes me irritable and cross.”
“And lazy. Come: jump up.”
“I can’t, Joe. I said last time I’d never go after the goblin again, and I won’t.”
“Yes, you will; you’ll come and help me drive him in.”
“No: let him go.”
“Nonsense! He’s the best cock bird I’ve got.”
“Then the others must be bad ones,” grumbled Dyke.
“Get up, sir!” cried Joe, stirring the boy with his toe.
“Shan’t. I don’t mind your kicking.”
“Get up, or I’ll duck you in the spring.”
“Wouldn’t be such a coward, because you’re big and strong. Hit one of your own size.”
“I declare I will,” cried Joe, bending down and seizing the boy by the arm and waistband.
“All right, do: it will be deliriously cool.”
Joe Emson rose up and took hold of his big beard.
“Don’t leave me everything to do, Dyke, old boy,” he said appealingly. “I wouldn’t lose that great ostrich for any money.”
Dyke muttered something about hating the old ostrich, but did not stir.
“All right. I’ll go alone,” said Joe; and he turned away and walked swiftly back.
But before he had gone a dozen yards Dyke had sprung up and overtaken him.
“I’ll come, Joe,” he said; “but that old cock does make me so wild. I know he understands, and he does it on purpose to tease me. I wish you’d shoot him.”
“Can’t afford the luxury, little un,” said Joe, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Let’s make our pile first.”
“Then the goblin will live for ever,” sighed the boy, “for we shall never make any piles.—Where is he?”
Joe shaded his eyes and looked right across the barren veldt, where the glare of the sun produced a hazy, shimmering effect.
“There he is!”
“Don’t see anything.”
“Yes, you can. Your eyes are sharper than mine. There, just to the left of that rock.”
“What!—that one like a young kopje?”
“Yes, just to the left.”
“What!—that speck? Oh! that can’t be it.”
“Yes, it is; and if you had the glass, you could tell directly.”
“But it’s so far, and oh dear, how hot it is!”
“It will be cooler riding.”
“No, it won’t,” grumbled Dyke; “there’ll be hot horses under you, then.”
“Yes, but cool air rushing by you. Come, old lad, don’t sham idleness.”
“It isn’t sham,” said Dyke. “I don’t think I used to be idle, but this hot sun has stewed all the spirit out of me.”
Joe said nothing, but led the way round to the back of the long low house, to where a high thick hedge of thorns shut in a lean-to shed thatched with mealie leaves and stalks; these, the dry remains of a load of Indian corn, being laid on heavily, so as to form a good shelter for the horses, haltered to a rough manger beneath.
As Dyke approached, he raised a metal whistle which hung from his neck by a leather thong, and blew loudly. A low whinny answered the call, and a big, raw-boned, powerful horse and a handsome, well-bred cob were unhaltered, to turn and stand patiently enough to be bridled and saddled, afterwards following out their masters like dogs.
And now as they passed the end of the stable, all the languor and lassitude passed away from Dyke on the instant. For he now caught sight of their Kaffir servant lying fast asleep just beneath the eaves of the corrugated iron roof.
The sand hushed the horses’ hoofs, and the Kaffir slept on, with the flies buzzing about his half-open mouth, as if they mistook the thick red lips for the petals of some huge flower.
“I’m not going to stand that,” said the boy.
“What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” whispered Dyke. “If I’m to be toiling after goblins, he’s not going to sleep there like a black pig. Go on a little way and look back.”
Joe Emson smiled in a heavy, good-humoured way, as he took the bridle his brother handed to him, and the smile developed into a silent laugh, as he saw the boy’s energy over a bit of mischief.
For Dyke actually ran back to the stable, brought out a bucket of water, stood counting the furrows of the iron roofing, and then carried the pail round to the other side and set it down.
His next movement was to fetch a roughly made step-ladder, count the furrows on his side, then place the ladder carefully, and at such a slope that it lay flat on the roof, so that, steadily preserving his balance, he walked up with the bucket of water from round to round till he could see across the ridge to where his brother stood with the horses a hundred yards away, watching over the big nag’s mane, and grasping now what was to happen.
Dyke knelt down now behind the ridge, to which the top of the ladder just reached, and had calculated his distance so well, that upon tilting the bucket a little, some water trickled down two of the furrows of an iron sheet, and began to drip from the eaves upon the Kaffir’s nude chest.
There was no movement, so a little more water was poured, and this brought forth a pig-like grunt, as if of satisfaction.
More water—more grunts.
More water, and a shuffling movement.
More water, and an angry gasp; the Kaffir raised his head, looked up at the sky, the dripping eaves—looked round, and settled down to sleep.
All this was invisible to Dyke, but he could tell by the sounds that his shower was having effect; and as soon as the man ceased to move, the boy sent down a third of the bucketful.
This
