Kitabı oku: «Tales of South Africa», sayfa 8
“Before I quitted her, I asked Mapana to lend me the old book on Falconry. I wanted to examine it more closely. On my promising to deliver it to her again, she sent for it, and placed it in my hands. I went back to my hut, put the book into my saddle-bag till morning, and quickly fell into a sound slumber.
“I saw little of Mapana till next evening. She was bathing with her women at a lagoon in the morning. Then a council of headmen was held, chiefly to discuss my visit; this lasted some hours. I wandered quietly about the village, escorted by two tribesmen; saw that the horses were well fed and cared for, looked at our rifles, and waited rather impatiently for another audience with Mapana. During the afternoon the Bushmen left the town. They had soon tired of its attractions, and yearned to be in the veldt again.
“It was not till nightfall that Mapana sent for me. I supped with her again by the fire in front of her hut, and again we had coffee and much laughter together. She was in curious spirits; sometimes rippling over with fun and a sort of naïve coquetry; at others, looking serious and thoughtful, and even, as I thought, a little askance at me. I lighted my pipe and began to smoke. Presently she sat herself a little nearer to me and spoke.
“‘My headmen,’ she said, ‘want to know if you have come to stay long among us, Kareesa,’ (so she pronounced my name); ‘I could not tell them this morning. What does Kareesa say? I tire of ruling these people alone. I want a man to help me. Seleni hopes to become that man; but Seleni – well, I love not Seleni over-much. Why should not Kareesa join his lot with mine and share my power?’ Mapana looked more beautiful than ever, I thought, at that moment; she was very serious, and her dark eyes were turned almost beseechingly to mine. Half barbarian though she was, I never could forget that white blood ran strong within her; and in mere looks alone there was enough to tempt many a better man than I, who was already more than half in love with her.
“I knew not what to say, but was about to stumble into some sort of speech. She leaned yet nearer, and placed a hand gently upon my arm. At that instant a sharp whistle, which I knew to be April’s, and April’s only, smote my ears. I half turned round. As I did so, an arrow grazed the breast of my flannel shirt and drove deep into the left bosom of Mapana. She uttered a little choking cry, and fell into my arms, a dying woman. I could not let her go in her last agony, poor soul; yet I knew there was deadly danger about me even as I supported her. Those moments were like some vile and terrible dream. In a second or two another arrow transfixed the fleshy part of my upper arm. Almost at the same instant the report of a rifle rang out; there was a cry, and a fall, and I knew Mapana was avenged – by April.
“Next came April’s voice: ‘Baas, Baas, are you there? Come quickly.’
“I cried out: ‘All right; I’m coming;’ and then looked into my poor lost Mapana’s face again. She had given a shiver or two, a last struggle, and was now dead in my arms. I laid her quietly upon the earth and kissed her brow. She had in her hands, poor thing, as she often had, the old sword. Her grip upon the scabbard was so strong that I could not easily loosen it. I drew the blade quickly from the sheath, and with one last look at her as she lay, still wonderfully beautiful even in death, I left Mapana.
“Meanwhile, the whole town was in a frightful uproar. Poor Mapana’s women were shrieking in her hut. Men’s voices were yelling excitedly in different directions. War-drums were beating already.
“I rushed to the kotla entrance. April was there with the two horses, saddled and bridled, and our rifles both loaded. First, I made him break and draw the arrow from my arm. He pointed to the body of Seleni, whom he had shot dead just as he fired his second arrow at me. We jumped into our saddles and galloped straight for the river. It was our only chance. By great good luck we reached the banks safely, swam our horses across, and chanced the crocodiles. Once on the other side, we cantered steadily, all through the night, due south. At early morning we swam the river again, much against the grain, and then, after an hour’s rest in thick bush, steadily continued our flight, now more to the eastward. To cut a long story short, by dint of nursing our nags, we made good our escape, reached the wagons in safety, and trekked hard till we had put a hundred and fifty miles between us and Umfanziland.
“Whether the Umfanzis followed us or not, I don’t know. Quite possibly, the death of Mapana, and the consequent turmoil, so bothered them that they never did. Thanks to my idea of keeping our nags always saddled and bridled, and to April’s bravery and smartness, we escaped with our lives.
“Poor dead Mapana! I shall never cease to mourn her as a good, and true, and most bewitching woman. I admired her beauty and her kindly heart. May she rest in peace!
“Well,” ended Cressey, “that’s my yarn. It’s a curious one, isn’t it? If you are as dry as I am, you must want a whisky and seltzer. After that, if you’ll come to my bedroom, I’ll show you the relics – the two coins, the sword, and the book – I brought from Umfanziland.”
Touching these same relics, which have proved undoubtedly to have once belonged to Prince Maurice of the Rhine, they now adorn the collection of a great personage, and are greatly treasured.
As for the descent of poor Mapana – whether she and her forefathers truly sprang, as she claimed, from Prince Maurice himself – that is a mystery dead with her dead self, never to be clearly explained on this side the dark portals.
Chapter Eight.
The Tapinyani Concession
At the hour of noon the straggling main street of Vryburg, the village capital of British Bechuanaland, lay bare and shadeless beneath the merciless glare of a February sun. The few straggling saplings in front of the corrugated-iron shanty known as the Criterion Hotel, and a forlorn blue gum-tree here and there in other parts of the place, served but to accentuate the utter nakedness and lack of shade. Notwithstanding the sun’s fierce assault, the air was crisp and nimble, for the plains here lie high – nearly four thousand feet above sea-level. There had been recent rain, and the sea of grass stretching everywhere beyond the village had now assumed a garb of fresh green in lieu of the wearisome pall of pale yellow which for months had masked the red soil. Two Boer horses stood with drooping heads tarrying patiently for their masters, now shopping inside a store on either side of the broad street; and a span of oxen lying and standing on the left hand, waiting for a load to the wagon behind them, were the only indications of life in the centre of the Bechuanaland capital. Beyond and behind these, however, north and south, the two hotels – canteens one might rather call them – at either end of the street showed, by noisy laughter and a gentle flow of humanity, that there the place was alive, and, as was its wont, cheerful.
The click of billiard balls from either inn gave further tone to the somewhat scant air of civilisation.
Lounging in a corner of the Criterion bar were two men equipped in veldt dress of cord breeches and coats, pigskin gaiters, brown boots, spurs, flannel shirts, and broad-brimmed felt hats. They were youngish men – both on the better side of thirty – and looked bronzed, full of health, and hard as nails. Both had come out to the country with Methuen’s Horse, and, after serving in Warren’s expedition, had drifted into the Bechuanaland Border Police, from which they had some time since retired. The elder, darker and taller, Hume Wheler, after a fairly successful public school and university career, and a short and briefless period at the Bar, had found the active and open-air life of the South African interior far more to his liking than two years of weary expectancy in gloomy chambers. In reality a man of action, the languid and somewhat cynical air which he affected in times of quiet greatly belied him. His friend, Joe Granton, shorter and more strongly knit than his fellow, wore habitually a far more cheerful aspect. His broad, bright countenance, clear blue eyes, fair hair and moustache, and transparent openness, combined to render him quickly welcome wherever he appeared. Joe had migrated to South Africa after five years’ experience of a City office. London-bred though he was, his yearnings were irresistibly athletic; and, after mastering the early troubles of horsemanship, he had settled down to veldt life, with its roughs and tumbles, with a zest that never faded.
These two men had been fast friends for years, and were now engaged in an enterprise which, although nominally enwrapped in some air of mystery, was a pretty open secret in Vryburg. The rage for concession-hunting was just now in full blast throughout South Africa. The two comrades, in partnership with two or three other Bechuanalanders, were just on the eve of an expedition into the far recesses of the Kalahari Desert, with the object of securing a concession from a native chief over a vast tract of country in that waterless and unknown wilderness.
As the two adventurers smoked their pipes and now and again refreshed themselves from long tumblers of whisky and soda, their eyes wandered with some impatience towards the open doorway. Their expectancy was at length rewarded. A short, strong figure of a man, middle-aged, brown-bearded, grey-eyed, appeared in the sun blaze outside, and entered the cool shade of the canteen. Tom Lane, the third and most important member of the expedition, was a well-known character in the far interior. Hunter, trader, cattle-dealer, border-fighter, Tom’s experience of the country was unique. Tough as steel, a wonderful veldt-man, none knew the dim and untravelled recesses of the Kalahari as did he. He had penetrated twice before to the kraal of Tapinyani, the Bakalahari chief whose concession they were now hoping to obtain, and the prime weight and direction of the trek thus fell naturally upon his broad and reliable shoulders.
“Well, Tom!” exclaimed Hume Wheler, waking a little from his languor, “here you are at last. Have you fixed up the drivers and men? What’ll you drink – whisky and soda, or beer?”
“Thanks! I’ll have a bottle of beer,” responded Lane cheerfully. “Well, I’ve had a lot of trouble, but I’ve got all the ‘boys’ in, and we’ll start to-night about twelve, as soon as the moon’s up. I see you’ve got all your kits on the wagon, and the stores in. The last of the mealies for the nags came down just as I left Klaas will see them stowed. The tent I’ve fastened on to the buck-rail. By the bye, Manning wants us all to sup at his house this evening before saying good-bye. He’s got the concession papers fixed up by the lawyers for Tapinyani to sign, if the old buster will sign; and Miss Manning particularly hopes you’ll both come.”
“That’s all right, Tom,” rejoined Joe Granton. “We’ll turn up at seven o’clock. Miss Manning said something about it yesterday when I met her. I’ve got to write some letters after lunch; but you fellows will find me, if you want me, in my bedroom all the afternoon. Well, here’s success to the Tapinyani concession! Santeit! and another thousand a year to us all!”
The three men smiled mutually, clinked their glasses, and drank deep draughts to their undertaking.
That evening the three were gathered at the house of Mr Manning, another member of the concession syndicate, who lived at the top of the town. It was nearly ten o’clock, the last of the business had been discussed, the concession documents handed over, and Kate Manning, the only daughter of the house, was singing some English songs. Now Kate was a very charming, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, who, although she lived with her father in this remote frontier town, had been educated in Europe, had a very charming manner, and was in no mind to suffer herself to rust dully through existence like some Boer meisje. She took the keenest interest in the expedition, and had known the active members of it for some years past – since she was a child, in fact. There was a friendly rivalry between Wheler and Granton in securing her commands and favours; but hitherto the girl, though she liked these two pleasant, well-set-up fellows well enough, had shown no decided preference for either. Even within the secret recesses of her own heart the balance stood very evenly. Hume Wheler was handsome, refined, a capital talker; Joe Granton’s perennial cheerfulness and unselfish and transparent character counted for much.
The dark-eyed girl, as she finished her song, suddenly turned round upon her audience, and exclaimed, “Oh! before you gentlemen start, there’s one little commission I had almost forgotten. You know, Mr Wheler, you brought some wildebeests’ tails down from ’Mangwato when you were last up-country. Well, they make excellent fly-whisks; but I want something even bigger. There are plenty of giraffe where you’re going, I hear. I want, above all things, a big bull giraffe’s tail. It will make a splendid whisk for Piet when he stands behind the chairs at dinner in hot weather. Now, Mr Granton, now, Mr Wheler, whichever of you first captures and brings me home that treasure shall – shall earn my undying gratitude.”
“By all means, Miss Kate,” answered Wheler gaily. “I haven’t yet shot a ‘camel’ – never had the luck to come across one. But you may consider the tail yours; it shall be laid gratefully at your feet.”
“Yes,” chimed in Joe Granton, in a much more serious manner. “You shall have the tail, if I have to ride a ‘camel’ right through to Damaraland to secure it.”
“Don’t you trust to Joe,” laughingly interrupted Wheler; “he can’t hit a haystack, much less a ‘camel’ going full split. I’ll bring in the tail, and secure that inestimable treasure, Miss Manning’s undying gratitude.”
“I’m not sure that I shall not have to trust to my old friend Mr Lane, after all,” returned the handsome girl merrily. “I know he can kill ‘camel,’ at any rate. However, you have my best wishes in your first hunt. And, Mr Granton, please don’t forget the blue jay feathers (the ‘roller’ is usually called ‘blue jay’ by colonists). I want them badly.”
The conversation now took another turn.
“I forgot to tell you, Tom,” said Mr Manning, addressing Lane, “Puff-adder Brown’s about again. What’s he up to just now, think you? No good, I’ll bet. Kate was out for a ride in the veldt this morning before breakfast, and met him as she came home by the Mafeking Road. The infernal rascal had the impudence to speak to her too, and ask after me in a sneering way. He owes me one over that cattle-running job five years ago, when I wiped his eye, and saved old Van Zyl’s oxen for him.”
“Puff-adder Brown, eh!” answered Tom Lane, with a lift of the eyebrows. “Where can he have sprang from, and what’s he after? I wonder he has the cheek to show his face in Vryburg. I thought he was away in Waterberg somewhere.”
“I can enlighten you,” broke in Joe Granton. “I heard this afternoon. Puff-adder Brown has an extra light wagon outspanned with fourteen good oxen at Jackal’s Pan. He rode into the town late last night to see a pal, and there’s something or other in the wind. What that is, I don’t know. It can’t be cattle-lifting nowadays; those Stellaland luxuries are over. Perhaps it’s a new trading trip. Waterberg’s played out, I fancy, and the Dutchmen don’t much fancy Puff-adder.”
Puff-adder Brown, it may be remarked, was a notorious border character, who, as trader, cattle-stealer, horse-lifter, freebooter, and general ruffian, was well-known. In the Bechuana troubles some years before the man had served as volunteer alternately on either side, sometimes throwing in his lot with the Dutch, at others siding with the natives. In either case, cattle and land plunder had been his prime object. In the quieter times following the British occupation he seldom showed much in Vryburg or Mafeking, judging rightly that his presence was objectionable to most decent men. The man was strong and unscrupulous, a bully, and violent where he dared; and his nickname, “Puff-adder,” had been bestowed upon him from a curious swelling of the neck observable in him in moments of anger.
In half an hour more the last good-byes were said, the farewell stirrup-cups partaken of; the horses were at the door. The three adventurers rode forth into the broad moonlight, and were soon at the outspan, where their wagon stood ready. A little later the oxen were in their yokes, and the trek began.
For the next month the expedition moved steadily north-west into the Kalahari, trekking with infinite toil from one scant pit of water to another. During the first week, small temporary pans of water left by the rains had saved a good deal of hardship; but after that time it was only with the greatest difficulty that a sufficient supply for the oxen and horses could be hit upon in each three or four days of travel. The country, too, was not an easy one. Sometimes they laboured amid heavy calcareous sand, through thick forests of mopani, where the axe had to be constantly at work to make a passage. At others thorny bush obstinately barred the way. Anon they moved across great dazzling plains of long grass, now turning once more to a blinding yellow beneath the too ardent sun. The pleasant groves of dark-green giraffe-acacia, masking a reddish, sandy soil, offered welcome relief now and again; but even here a road had sometimes to be cut, and the toil was long and exhausting.
One evening, just at sundown, at the end of a month, the wagon reached the remains of a shallow pool of rain-water, much fouled by game, and rapidly vanishing by evaporation. The oxen had trekked almost incessantly for two days and nights, and were gaunt and wild with thirst. The noisome mixture of mud and water stank abominably, but the two barrels were empty, and had to be recruited against the journey ahead of them. These filled, the oxen and horses were allowed to drink moderately, leaving a bare supply for the morning before they should move forward again.
Hume Wheler and Joe Granton had come in with the wagon. Lane had ridden forward forty-eight hours since with a Bushman picked up at the last water, with the object of finding a desert fountain far distant in the wilderness, where the next supply of water was to be obtained. Upon the strength of this fountain hinged the safety of the expedition in the last trek of nearly a week – waterless except for this supply – before Tapinyani’s kraal should be reached.
After a poor supper of tough, tinned “bully beef” – they had had no time to shoot game – and a mere sip at the poisonous and well-nigh undrinkable coffee, brewed from the foul water of the pool, Hume Wheler lay by the fire smoking in moody contemplation. The day had been desperately hot, and the work very hard, and even now, as night with her train of stars stepped forth upon the heaven, the air was close and still. Joe Granton had climbed up to the wagon for more tobacco. His cheerful nature was little downcast, even by the trials and worries of the past days; and now, as he filled his pipe, some pleasant remembrance passed through his brain, and in a mellow voice he sang: —
“How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.”
As the notes died slowly away upon the still air, Wheler looked up from the fire, and said in a sharp voice, “What in God’s name, Joe, possesses you to sing about moss-grown wells and cool English water, and that sort of thing? It’s bad enough to be enduring the tortures of the damned in this cursed desert, with a thirst on one big enough to drain Windermere, without being reminded of such things. Don’t, old man; don’t!”
“All right, old chap,” cheerily answered Granton. “I’ll drop the ‘Moss-covered Bucket’ and its unpleasant suggestions. I’ll get out my banjo and come down.” Extricating the banjo, he descended, and sat at his friend’s side. They sat smoking by the firelight, exchanging but few words, while Joe twanged softly at his strings.
In half an hour Stephan, the Hottentot driver, came over from the other fire, where the native servants sat.
“I tink, Sieur,” he said, “that Baas Lane will soon be here. I hear something just now.”
Surely enough, in three minutes Tom Lane’s whistle was heard, and, directly after, a Bushman walking by his side, he rode his nearly foundered horse into the strong firelight.
After exchanging greetings, he directed a boy to give the horse some water. “He’s about cooked, poor beast,” he said. “I don’t think he’d have stood up another six hours. Got any coffee?”
They handed him a beakerful. He drank it down with a wry face.
“That’s pretty bad,” he remarked; “but it might be worse. I’ll have another. I’ve touched no drink for eighteen hours, and it was blazing hot to-day. I’ve got bad news, boys, and I’m afraid we’re in a tight place.”
“Why, what devil’s hole are we in now?” queried Wheler. “I thought we were about through the last of our troubles.”
“I’m afraid not, Hume,” replied Lane. “That infernal scoundrel Puff-adder Brown has been ahead of us. Somehow I half suspected some game of the kind. I got it all from a Bakalahari near the water in front. Brown, it seems, with his light wagon, trekked across from Kanya by way of Lubli Pits, and has just pipped us. To make matters secure, he has poisoned the water-pit I’ve just come from with euphorbia branches. I and my nag had a narrow squeak. We were just going to drink last evening when we got there, when this Bushman here – a decent Masarwa he is, too – stopped me, and pointed out the euphorbia. Then I discovered the murderous trick this scoundrel has played us. If he had poisoned the lot of us, I suppose he would have cared not a tinker’s curse; and, in this desert, who would have been the wiser? The water-pit stands in a stony bit of country, and there happen to be a lot of euphorbia growing about, so his job was an easy one. However, we’ll be even with him yet. He’s not far in front, and we may spoil his little game, if we have luck and stick to the ship.”
By the camp-fire that evening the plan of operations was settled. Nearly six days of absolutely waterless travel, if the wagons could by any possibility be dragged, lay between the trekkers and Tapinyani’s kraal. No oxen could pull the wagon waterless over such a journey. It was decided, therefore, after finally watering the animals next morning, to trek steadily for two days, unyoke the oxen, leave the wagon standing in the desert in charge of two of the native boys (to whom would be left a barrel of water, enough, with care, to last them nearly a week), and drive on the oxen as rapidly as possible to Tapinyani’s. Without the encumbrance of the wagon, the last part of the journey might be accomplished in two days, or rather less. Watered, rested, and refreshed at Tapinyani’s kraal, the oxen could then be driven back to fetch in the wagon. This part of the undertaking was to be entrusted to Stephan, the Hottentot driver. Stephan had been picked for the expedition as a thoroughly reliable native, and having traversed the Kalahari before, he would be equal to the emergency. Meanwhile, the three white men, riding their freshest horses, and leading their spare ones, were to push forward, after watering the nags at earliest dawn, in the confident hope of reaching Tapinyani’s kraal in a forced march of thirty-six hours.
At four o’clock upon the second afternoon following this camp-fire council, the three Englishmen rode and led their tired and battered horses into the outskirts of Tapinyani’s kraal, that singular native village, planted by the only considerable permanent water in the immense waste of the Central Kalahari. Tom Lane knew the place, and they passed straight through the straggling collection of beehive-like, circular, grass-thatched huts, until they reached the large kotla, or enclosure, in the centre of the town, where Tapinyani’s own residence stood. Skirting the tall fence of posts and brushwood, they passed by an open entrance into the smooth enclosure of red sand, and then, as they reined in their nags, a curious, and to them intensely interesting scene met their gaze.
Just in front of the chief’s hut was gathered a collection of natives, some nearly naked – save for the middle patch of hide common to Kalahari folk – others clothed about the shoulders in cloaks or karosses of skin – pelts of the hartebeest, and other animals. In the centre of his headmen and councillors – for such they were – seated on a low wagon-chair of rude make, the gift of some wandering trader, was Tapinyani himself, a spare, middle-aged native of Bechuana type, clad in a handsome kaross of the red African lynx. In his hands Tapinyani held a sheet of large foolscap paper, concerning which he seemed to be closely questioning the tall white man standing at his side. This white man, a huge, broad-shouldered, heavily-built person, somewhat fleshy of figure, notable for his florid face and huge black beard, was none other than Puff-adder Brown himself. Bulking in size and stature far above the slim-built Bakalahari people around him, the man stood there in his flannel shirt-sleeves, his great black sunburnt arms bared to the blazing sunshine and crossed upon his chest, his heavy face shadowed by a huge broad-brimmed felt hat, easily dominating the simple assemblage of desert folk. Near to his elbow, in trade clothes, stood his wagon-driver, a dissipated-looking Basuto.
“By George! we’re just in time,” said Lane, as he dismounted with alacrity from his horse, and turned the bridle rein over its head. “Come on, you fellows!”
His companions needed no second word to dismount, and in another second or two they were marching side by side with Lane across the kotla to Tapinyani. Each man carried a sporting rifle, into which, in view of emergency, a cartridge had already been thrust. They were quickly across the forty paces of red sand, and now stood before the astonished group.
“Greeting! Tapinyani,” said Lane, speaking in Sechuana to the chief, as he moved up near to him. “I hope all is well with you and your people. What do you do here with this man,” indicating Brown, “and what is the paper you have in your hands?”
The Chief explained that the paper was a grant of a piece of land which the trader wanted for the purpose of running cattle on.
“How much land?” asked Lane.
“Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats,” replied the chief.
“And how much are you to receive for this?”
“Six guns, ammunition, and some brandy,” was the answer. “I am glad you have come,” pursued Tapinyani; “I know you well, and you can advise me in this matter.”
He handed the paper to Lane, who, holding up his hand to check a protest on Puff-adder Brown’s part, ran his eye rapidly over the document.
“Just as I thought,” remarked Lane, addressing Tapinyani. “By this paper, if you sign it, you hand over practically the whole of your country, its timber, and any minerals there may be in it, to this man. The thing’s an impudent fraud, and I advise you to have nothing to do with it.” He spoke still in Sechuana, so that all the natives standing round understood him well. Puff-adder Brown, too, who was well versed in native dialects, perfectly comprehended his words.
Under the changed aspect of affairs, the man had seemed half irresolute. He had not expected this sudden appearance after the precautions he had taken, especially at the poisoned pool. But while Lane and the chief had rapidly exchanged words, his gorge had been steadily rising, his face took on a deeper and a darker red, and the great veins of his huge neck swelled in an extraordinary way. Well had he been christened Puff-adder Brown.
“Wait a bit, chief,” he blurted out in the native tongue. “These men are liars, every one of them. Don’t believe them, the swines! There is nothing in that paper you need be afraid to sign. Why, they are after a concession of land themselves.”
“Tapinyani,” rejoined Lane, “let me tell you something more about this man. He is a liar and a scamp, and worse. He cheated your friend, the chief Secheli, years ago. He fought against Mankoroane, and stole a lot of his cattle, and would have stolen his country if the English had not interfered. Take the word of an old friend, and have nothing to do with that paper.”
Puff-adder Brown made a motion as if to strike at the speaker, but Tapinyani just at this instant opening his mouth to speak, he stayed his hand.
“I will not sign the paper to-day,” said the chief. “I will think the matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again to-morrow.”
Puff-adder Brown’s face was ablaze with passion. He saw that his plans were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the assembly as if seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest. Upon the instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy back-handed blow in the mouth.
But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn. Cockney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a horse, and in hard condition. During his five years’ career in the City he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now, with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader. Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe’s vicious doubled fist upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling before his vision. It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each other and sparred for an opening.
