at Tuys. Then the color mounted in his cheek.
"Who are they that I should go to them?" he asked indignantly. "Why should an O'Neil of Rietvlei wait on these common gamblers from Johannesburg? If they want to see me, let them come to my house!"
My father had a house in Belfast where he transacted business and often spent the night when it was too late or too rainy to return to the Valley of Reeds.
Soon we reached the center of the town and found thousands waiting to welcome us. All the Boers knew Slim Gert O'Neil and his sons, and we received an ovation. We passed through the town to father's house, and the horses were placed in the small kraal at the rear. He looked them over, Oom Tuys also being a keenly interested observer, and then went into the house. We boys remained outside, and it was one of the proudest moments of my life. So proud was I that I felt impelled to tell all the town boys what I really thought about father's horses and in particular about the speed of "Black Hand Tom."
"He is so fast," I assured them, "that he outruns bullets. Only the lightning can catch him, and I am not any too sure about that!"
Some of the boys jeered at my claim, and thereupon ensued a small battle. My impi backed me up, and it began to look as though some one would be badly hurt when Oom Tuys dashed out of the house and scattered us.
"Mzaan Bakoor, you little devil!" he shouted, catching me by the ears. "Why do you make so much fight? Why do you tell such lies? 'Black Hand Tom' will only eat the dust of these Johannesburg horses. They are race horses!"
Now this was sacrilege. To hear my uncle, the great "White King of Swaziland," say such a thing gave me such a shock that I forgot to kick his shins for tweaking my ears. Then came my inspiration! Brought up among sportsmen, I seized my chance.
"If 'Black Hand Tom' is so slow, then you bet against him. I dare you!" I said.
"Of course I will. I am no fool!" Tuys assured me.
"All right, Oom Tuys, then you bet with me first," I said. "If 'Black Hand Tom' wins his race, you must take me with you to see King Buno the next time you go. I dare you to make your promise good. If father's horse loses, I'll never ask you to take me to Swaziland again!"
Tuys let me go and hesitated a moment. I taunted him and dared him to take my bet, and he finally agreed.
"If 'Black Hand Tom' wins, you leave for Swaziland with me in two weeks," he promised.
We went into the house and found several of the Johannesburg gamblers there, waiting to talk to my father. They were drinking gin and whiskey, and I remember marveling at their wonderful clothes. Never before had I seen such waistcoats or such cravats, and their great, soft, light-colored hats were a revelation to me. I particularly noticed that they all smoked long black cigars, wore huge diamonds, and talked in loud coarse voices.
Soon father's secretary came into the room. In his quiet English way he told them that his master did not care to see them that night and would talk to them in the morning. The races were to be next day and the gamblers left the house quite disgruntled. As they went out of the door I heard one of them say, "Never mind, we'll get his money to-morrow!"
Shortly before prayers that night I told my father what this man had said, but he only smiled in his dry way.
"Don't worry, Owen, my lad," he said. "Your father is not always such a fool as he might look. To-morrow night may have another tale to tell!"
However, I went to bed much troubled that night. We seemed such country people compared to these flashy horsemen from the great city of Johannesburg. I tried to sleep though quite unhappy at the thought that father might be mistaken, but his quiet confidence somehow reassured me to a certain extent. My father was a very great man to me—the greatest in the world—great even when compared to Oom Paul Kruger, our idol. It seemed impossible that his horse should not be the best and, comforted by my faith, I finally fell asleep.
Oh, the glories of the next day, the day of the races! Even before breakfast we boys trudged to the race track and watched several horses working out. Two of them were from Johannesburg, and even their blankets failed to hide the fact that they were fast. In addition to their white trainers, each horse seemed to have almost a dozen kaffirs in attendance, and all about the track were hundreds of black and white men watching the trials.
On all sides of the track, also, could be seen the wagons of the Boer farmers who had trekked in to the meet. Slender spirals of smoke were rising from each group, showing that breakfast was being prepared. There must have been hundreds of wagons, and the whole territory about the race track was one great camping-ground.
We returned to the house to find father and Oom Tuys out in the kraal carefully examining our horses. I remember how father ran his hands lovingly over the sleek body of "Black Hand Tom." The horse would allow few to approach him, but he nuzzled my father's hand, as though to say, "I'm fit for the race of my life. I will not fail Slim Gert!"
After breakfast, instead of taking our horses to the track, my father had them worked out along the road which ran by the house. Later I learned that this was a disappointment to the gamblers from Johannesburg. They had hoped to see "Black Hand Tom" on the track before the race, so as to get a line on him.
Shortly afterward my father and Oom Tuys rode over to the track, and we all trooped after. Early as it was, crowds were beginning to gather and I never saw so many people in my life. I was surprised at the number of white men there. I knew that there were millions of blacks in our country, but was greatly astonished to see so many of our color.
Father rode among the wagons surrounding the track, greeting his friends and everywhere receiving a joyful welcome. Each one asked him about his great horse, and his answer invariably was, "He is ready to do the very best he can. The rest is with God!" This seemed to satisfy the Boers, and I know it was all I wanted to hear. I immediately announced to all the lads with me that the race was as good as won.
Oom Tuys took occasion to remind me of our bet and chaffed me, saying, "Now you will never see King Buno!" This made me wrathy. It was unspeakable that he should doubt that father's horse could do anything but win!
While at the track I remembered a little talk I had planned to have with Klaas. Owing to an uncanny knack with horses, the little beggar had been trained as our jockey and was to ride "Black Hand Tom" in the great race. Sibijaan and I returned to the house and looked him up. We found him chumming with the horse, and called him out of the stable.
Now Klaas was smaller and lighter than either Sibijaan or myself and stood no chance with us in combat of any sort. We took firm hold of him—Sibijaan by his arms and I by his ears—and then I delivered my ultimatum:
"You see all these white men, Klaas," I said. "They are thieves. They have come here to steal all the Ou Baas's (Old Boss's) money. You've got to ride your best to-day. 'Black Hand Tom' is the best horse. He'll win if you ride him right. If you lose, Sibijaan and I will kill you! Won't we, Sibijaan?"
My fellow conspirator most emphatically agreed. He made motions that illustrated a neat and expeditious way of cutting Klaas's throat and of visiting other unpleasant deaths upon him. Klaas was properly impressed.
"If I don't win the race I am willing to die!" he said, and with this understanding we returned to the track. I found my father surrounded by the Johannesburg gamblers, and squeezed my way into the group to find much betting going on. With Boer shrewdness, father was demanding and getting good odds. He took the stand that "Black Hand Tom" had never been raced and had never won a race, while the horses of the
