which proceeded from them, he judged that it was a row. Nor was he wrong
in his conclusion. In the corner of the yard, close by the stable-door,
surrounded by the aforesaid crowd, stood Frank Muller; a heavy
_sjambock_ in his raised hand, as though in the act to strike. Before
him, a very picture of drunken fury, his lips drawn up like a snarling
dog's, so that the two lines of white teeth gleamed like polished ivory
in the sunlight, his small eyes all shot with blood and his face working
convulsively, was the Hottentot Jantje. Nor was this all. Across his
face was a blue wheal where the whip had fallen, and in his hand a heavy
white-handled knife which he always carried.

"Hullo! what is all this?" said John, shouldering his way through the
crowd.

"The _swartsel_ (black creature) has stolen my horse's forage, and given
it to yours!" shouted Muller, who was evidently almost off his head with
rage, making an attempt to hit Jantje with the whip as he spoke. The
latter avoided the blow by jumping behind John, with the result that the
tip of the _sjambock_ caught the Englishman on the leg.

"Be careful, sir, with that whip," said John to Muller, restraining his
temper with difficulty. "Now, how do you know that the man stole your
horse's forage; and what business have you to touch him? If there was
anything wrong, you should have reported it to me."

"He lies, Baas, he lies!" yelled out the Hottentot in tremulous,
high-pitched tones. "He lies; he has always been a liar, and worse than
a liar. Yah! yah! I can tell things about him. The land is English now,
and Boers can't kill the black people as they like. That man--that
Boer, Muller, he shot my father and my mother--my father first, then my