"'Oh,' says he, 'we don't do much of anything. They're about all the
society we get. I'm a bit of a pro-Boer myself,' he says, 'but between you
and me the average Boer ain't over and above intellectual. You're the
first American we've met up with, but of course you're a burgher.'

"It was what I ought to have been if I'd had the sense of a common tick,
but the way he drawled it out made me mad.

"'Of course I am not,' I says. 'Would _you_ be a naturalised Boer?'

"'I'm fighting against 'em,' he says, lighting a cigarette, 'but it's all
a matter of opinion.'

"'Well,' I says, 'you can hold any blame opinion you choose, but I'm a
white man, and my present intention is to die in that colour.'

"He laughed one of those big, thick-ended, British laughs that don't lead
anywhere, and whacked up some sort of compliment about America that made
me mad all through.

"I am the captive of your bow and spear, Sir, but I do not understand the
alleged British joke. It is depressing.

"I was introdooced to five or six officers that evening, and every blame
one of 'em grinned and asked me why I wasn't in the Filipeens suppressing
our war! And that was British humour! They all had to get it off their
chests before they'd talk sense. But they was sound on the Zigler. They
had all admired her. I made out a fairy-story of me being wearied of the
war, and having pushed the gun at them these last three months in the hope