I MEET DE WET


The little village of Frankfort was wrapped in slumbering darkness when
I entered it. Cold and hungry after the five hours' journey, I did not
scruple to knock up the Postmaster. With an instinct of good-fellowship
that did him credit, he at once made me welcome; breaking up a couple of
empty boxes, we made a rattling fire, and soon big gulps of cocoa were
chasing the last few shivers from my wearied frame.

My last thought as I wrapped my blanket round me and stretched myself
out on the floor was of the despatch I had sent after the President.
Suppose my messenger lost the document or was captured! But I would soon
know, for if I found the line joined through at eight o'clock, according
to my orders, it would be a proof that he had returned and found the
coast clear.

The little office was crowded with busy clerks when I opened my eyes the
next morning. Casting a rapid glance at the clock, I saw it was almost
eight. There was no time to lose. I grasped the useful little vibrator
with one hand, flung the blanket into a corner with the other, and set
off, calling to the native servant to follow with a ladder. It was not
advisable to operate under the eyes of the townspeople, so I marched
across the bridge and into the veld, until a suitable spot was reached.
No sooner had I thrown my wire over the line than I again heard British
and Dutch signals intermingled. Good! My message was safe.

The Kafir shinned up the pole and cut the wire, permitting the British