"A Romance of Adventure and War in South Africa" (continued 2)

Their wonder increased as they came to the suburbs, and saw the avenues and tall, shady trees which had all sprung up like magic out of the bare veldt—stately groves, over a hundred feet in height, all created in six years; beautiful gardens, luxuriant shrubberies, costly and artistic villas, grassy lawns, orchards, and tropic climbers covering up unsightly places with cool and exquisite loveliness. It was as if Aladdin had rubbed his magic lamp, and lo! his enslaved genius had done the trick.

The Uitlanders were the enslaved genii that had wrought this miracle upon that treeless veldt. Their civilised skill and educated intellects had accomplished what would have taken centuries to achieve under the Boer system. Yet the ignorant Boers were the masters, and ruled over intellect and civilisation. This, to our heroes, seemed even more incongruous and wonderful than the marvels which were spread out before them. However had it come to pass? However could it have gone on so long? How much longer could it possibly continue?

They were still trying to solve the problem when they drove up through a delightful avenue of trees, and stopped in front of a large and stately mansion. It was the Transvaal home of Clarence Raybold.

Everywhere they looked, the evidence of wealth and lavish outlay stared them in the face—in the grounds with its trees and lawns, which had been forced and kept green by expensive irrigation; in the vast columns and carved work of the masonry. Mr Raybold had expended a fortune on the rearing of this suburban palace as a testimony to his wealth. Even Clarence was impressed as he led the way up the steps and knocked at the heavy, polished front door.

Mr Raybold, although surrounded by so much luxury, was a bluff and hearty man, who put on no airs of dignity. He welcomed his son with affectionate warmth and his two friends with genuine hospitality. Clarence had written about their intentions from Cape Town, so that they were expected, and found their rooms all prepared.

While they were having something to eat to keep them going till dinner, a man was sent with a trap to bring their luggage.

Mr Raybold heard the account of their arms being taken by the Boers with a grim smile; but he made no other comment than to say he would do his best to have them returned, or kept safely for them until they left the Transvaal.

It was only when they were leaving the dining-room to have a bath and change their clothes, that he closed the door carefully, and said in an impressive undertone—

“Be very careful how you express any opinion about the Government, outside or inside. Also trust no one, however friendly they may appear. Remember always that we are as much under surveillance here as people are in Russia. Paul Kruger has his spies and secret detectives everywhere.”

“But this is most horrible,” cried the boys together. Mr Raybold merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled the same grim smile.

“Careless words are sometimes very costly in Johannesburg, and a silent tongue is worth a great deal more than its weight in gold here. We don’t talk much in society here, and never about politics.”

“But your wrongs?” asked Ned, “We leave that to the newspapers to air, and to those who have no money to be confiscated in fines.”

The heart of Ned sank as he listened to these wise and prudent words of this successful citizen. Gold was the chain which the Uitlanders had forged for themselves; and while the supply continued, it seemed hopeless to expect them to make any effort towards deliverance.

The three lads went off to dress themselves sadly and silently. Clarence hung his head with shame for all the splendour which appeared so many tokens of his father’s fall from independence; while his chums, out of sympathy and pity for him, refrained from looking at him.

It is terrible for a brave and generous boy to feel ashamed of his father. Poor Clarence went into the sumptuous room appointed to him, and, after locking the door, he flung himself on a couch and groaned in the bitterness of his heart.

He remembered his father before he had come to the Transvaal and before he was quite so rich. Thus he had good cause to look up to him with pride, for he was a strong, fearless, and self-reliant man, who could never have uttered such words as he had done that afternoon. What a change those six years of tyranny had wrought in him! He looked older now by a dozen years. His eyes had lost their straight, outward look, and his face had become softer and flabbier, while his voice had no longer its decided ring. All this was not the father he expected to meet.

He did not remember much about his mother, for she had died while he was very young. Somehow he felt glad now for the first time to think that she had died before the Transvaal migration. It would have utterly broken his heart had he seen the same servile look on her face as he had seen on his father’s.

All at once he pushed those wretched feelings from his heart, to replace them by an increased hatred for the Boers who had wrought this evil—the old obstinate baboon of Pretoria, who stood and with his darkened mind stemmed the tide of civilisation. Ah, how Clarence abhorred Oom Paul Kruger that afternoon!

Fred Weldon bathed and dressed himself quietly, thinking all the time upon poor Clarence, and wishing that he could comfort him, as Clarence had done when he lost his father. He felt now that death was not the worst calamity which could happen to a boy with his father. Time cured that; but what could cure the death of respect?

“Perhaps he is only lying low, like Brer Rabbit, and playing Indian for a special purpose. That would be quite fair in a game of this kind. I must give old Clar this idea and hope.”

He grew cheerful after this, and very soon persuaded himself that such must be the case. Indeed, before he had finished dressing he was mentally regarding Mr Raybold as a dark conspirator, only waiting events to ripen, to blossom out into a daring hero of the William Tell order.

Ned, when he got into his room, also locked his door behind him; then he unlaced his boots, and putting his hand inside, pulled out the folded sheet of paper.

It was not so clear as he should have liked, but the address was readable and the paper intact.

He was too honourable to open the missive, although, had he done so, he would have been no wiser, as the contents were written in cypher. The address was as follows:—

“Mr Philip Martin, Johannesburg.”

Having read it, and noted the name, he wrapped it up within a clean piece of notepaper, and placed it for the time within his purse.

He meant to ask his host that night if he knew this gentleman, and if so, he would call upon him after dinner.

But by good luck, when he got down to the library, where Mr Raybold was waiting for his young guests, he found the very man he wanted. He had come to dine with Mr Raybold.

Ned looked at the man whom the great empire-maker had written to with interest, nor was he disappointed in his ideal.

Philip Martin was a strong man, and looked a bold one also. He was about five feet eight inches in height, with a deep, wide chest and a massive neck. He had a good deal the air of a sailor about him, which his navy-blue serge suit and turned-down collar helped. His eyes were dark and piercingly bright, while over them were thick black eyebrows. His beard was cut short and pointed, and his features were pronounced, while his complexion was swarthy. He was quick and decided in his motions, and had a sonorous voice that loomed through the room. Altogether he looked a man of strength, character, and indomitable will. Just the sort of man that Ned could admire.

Ned opened his purse, and took out his note, removing the outer covering without being observed. Then, watching his chance when he was left alone with Mr Martin, he approached him, and said—

“I think this is for you, Mr Martin. I got it from a gentleman on the veldt three nights ago.”

“Thanks.”

Mr Martin opened the note carelessly; then, as soon as he saw the contents, he started, and crushed it quickly into his pocket.

“You have not shown any one this note, have you?”

“No; I was told to be careful about it, and give it only to you, sir.”

“What kind of man was it who gave it to you?”

“It was the Honourable Cec—”

“Hush! I am satisfied. It is all right. Do not say any more.”

He went over to the fire, and after reading it carefully, he put it amongst the logs, and watched it burn; then he stirred the ashes with his foot, and turned once more to Ned.

“You have done a great service in giving me this so promptly, and I shall be happy if I can serve you in return.”

“I was too proud to be entrusted with it, sir.”

“Then you are one of the writer’s many admirers, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. There is no man I admire so much or would like to serve more.”

Mr Martin looked at Ned keenly for some time without speaking, then he said—

“The writer of that note tells me I may trust you and your companions. He is seldom wrong in his reading of character, and in this instance my own opinion agrees with his, respecting you at least. I haven’t seen your chums yet.”

“You may safely trust us all to the death, sir, in anything honourable. We have sworn to stick together.”

“To the death, you say! Well, I may even want as desperate a pledge as that. But can I trust your temper and discretion?”

Ned blushed as he remembered his afternoon fit of passion, but he replied firmly—

“I hope so, sir.”

“Had you that note on you this afternoon when you assaulted those two Boers?”

Ned hung his head guiltily. Yet he answered truthfully—

“Yes, sir. The sight of the fort made me lose my head for a moment, but it shall not occur again.”

“You ran a frightful risk,” answered Mr Martin, severely. “The incident took place just opposite my window, and I saw it all, and expected you to be taken in charge. If you had been, that paper would have been discovered, and more damage done to the cause of freedom and federation than you at present could imagine. There, I shall not lecture you any more; only remember that to provoke a street row is not the way to qualify for a patriot. Say no more about this now, but after dinner I shall take you and your friends for a walk, show you some of the town by night, and perhaps also let you see how you may help the Uitlanders and—you know who else.”

He pressed our hero’s hand warmly, as a token of his forgiveness, and at once began to ask him questions about his journey up the country.

Mr Raybold came back while they were conversing, and then shortly afterwards Clarence and Fred. Almost at the same moment the dinner-gong sounded, and together they went in to dinner.

In the lobby Mr Martin whispered something in the ear of Mr Raybold, who at once turned and looked with interest at Ned. That look cleared up the doubts of Ned like magic, so that he laid hold of Clarence, and said to him tenderly—

“Cheer up, old chappy; your dad is all right!”

“Do you think so, Ned? Fred is of the same opinion.”

“I don’t think—I know, and so will you before the night is over. Take his advice and mine. Be discreet, for silence is golden. Just you wait a bit.”

“Thank God!” answered Clarence, softly, a sudden moisture coming into his rich brown eyes.

Chapter Nine.

Johannesburg by Night.

Mr Philip Martin was an intelligent and entertaining speaker, with enough of the boy still about him to make him understand and interest our heroes.

His age was thirty-two, and he had both travelled and read a great deal. A South African by birth and descent of three generations, all his sympathies and hopes lay in his native land. England, or rather Scotland, had been the original home of his ancestors, and their traditions of liberty and independence were not forgotten. But it was Africa, not Scotland, which held all that was most sacred to him.

He had come to Johannesburg to superintend one of the mines, the same one from which Mr Raybold drew most of his immense income. Philip Martin was therefore a man with no personal vested interests in the Transvaal beyond his salary. He could therefore leave whenever he liked this inhospitable soil to Uitlanders.

He could also plot and conspire, without the same risks that Mr Raybold ran. This perhaps rendered him more daring and independent than his host.

During dinner, when not talking about the market, they conversed on indifferent subjects. Mr Martin seemed chiefly interested in hearing all about the life the lads had led at school.

Ned had a notion that this bright, strong, swarthy man, with his air of interest, was drawing them out for some purpose of his own, and was reading them all the time he asked questions and listened to their replies.

But he did not mind being studied, as his record and those of his companions were clean ones. Besides, he found it a pleasure to give his confidence to this man, for already he liked him very greatly, and felt that he would not be misjudged.

So the three lads rattled on, recalling incidents of victories won in the class and in the field, while Mr Martin listened with his keen, bright eyes glowing upon them alternately, as if in his heart he was moving again with them through those merry past times.

Mr Raybold also sat looking at them and listening with the indulgent smile of a genial host, who is pleased to find his guests enjoying themselves.

It was a good dinner, and the lads did full justice to it, in spite of their chatter, for they had brought with them good travellers’ appetites. The solids disappeared rapidly as they were placed before them, without in the least spoiling their zest for the dessert. The wines, however, they did not touch, which Mr Martin also abstained from. Mr Raybold was the only one who indulged in anything stronger than water.

“What do you drink?” asked Mr Martin, during a pause.

“Water,” answered our heroes.

“Right you are. That is my tipple also when I can get it; but in Africa one has to grow accustomed to moderate their desires even in this indulgence—particularly when on an exploring expedition.”

“And that was our intention in coming out to Africa.”

“You’ll have your chance, never fear. There is plenty of ground yet left to explore, and lots of big game to bag up-country.”

Clarence looked wistfully and affectionately at his father during the dinner, who returned his glances with tenderness. The abject expression which Mr Raybold had seemed to have worn in the afternoon had now been replaced by an air of placid content and kindliness. Clarence felt greatly relieved, and began to regain hope and confidence.

“Are you going to the club tonight, Philip?” he asked.

“Yes; I’ll look in there about ten o’clock. Shall you be there?”

“Yes; I think so,” replied the capitalist, quietly. “I have a few calls to make first.”

“I suppose you don’t object to me taking the youngsters, to show them about?”

“Well—no. If you consider them old enough, I don’t greatly object.”

There was not much heartiness in Mr Raybold’s tones, and he looked in the direction of his son with a slightly troubled eye, while he rubbed his chin reflectively.

“Oh, I’ll vouch for them, and take care that they do not get into any scrapes also,” answered Mr Martin, confidently.

“Very well; I’ll trust them under your wing. Come into my sanctum and have a cigar first.”

Mr Raybold rose and led the way with a pleasant smile; then, dismissing the servant who had followed them with coffee, he locked the door, and turned round to Philip Martin with a stern face—

“Look here, Philip, I don’t like this! I am risking the biggest part of my fortune, and possibly my own life, to help on the cause, but I draw the line at giving up my son also.”

Clarence sprang forward with a joyous cry, and flung his arms impulsively round his father’s neck.

“Oh, father, how happy you have made me by those words! So you are not, after all, a tame serf?”

“Wait, Clarence. I am speaking to Mr Martin at present,” said his father, gravely, at the same time pushing him away gently.

“I have learnt enough from these lads, Mr Raybold, to know that no power on earth will keep them out of the fun if they live in Johannesburg,” answered Philip Martin, calmly. “If we don’t show them what is going on under the surface, they are too recently from the home of freedom to be able to endure the life here.”

“I can send them away.”

“Where? To Rhodesia, where they will be picked up and utilised by our friends outside?”

Mr Raybold remained silent, as if he had not a reply handy.

“Best get them initiated first,” continued Philip, “and then they will be able to hold their own. Cecil Rhodes has already seen them, and trusts them, young as they are; and you know he is not the man to make many mistakes. Besides, think of your son’s feelings. He must respect his father. Just give him a chance to speak for himself.”

“Yes, father; let us go with Mr Martin. I want to be proud as well as fond of my father. We all want to help to shake down this horrible tyranny, and we can be trusted.”

“Those are our sentiments, sir,” echoed Ned and Fred—“to be of some service to the British, and help to wipe out those ugly stains that now lie on our flag.”

“My lads,” answered Mr Raybold, gravely, “it is not that I do not trust you, but that I fear to risk you. What has to be done is our business, not yours—men’s work, not boys’.”

“Where a father goes, surely it is a son’s duty to follow,” said Clarence.

“We’ll take the risk. And if we are boys, we are able to fight as well as most men, and run a good deal faster, if running is the game,” added Ned, with a flash in his eyes.

“Besides,” said Fred, quietly, “we know too much already not to know more.”

Philip Martin laughed, and cried—

“That clinches it, I fancy. Come, Mr Raybold, I’d rather have these three youngsters in our ranks than a dozen of some fellows I know.”

“I must yield, I suppose,” answered Mr Raybold, with a regretful sigh. “Only I wish I could have kept you out of this hornets’ nest, Clarence. Be careful, though, now that you are about to become conspirators, for we have a very wily enemy to hoodwink.”

He went over to where the cigars were and took one, which he cut and lit, while he offered the box to Philip.

“I’ll call the committee meeting for half-past ten. That will give you time to look round the town, Philip.”

“Yes; that will do nicely. Come, boys, if you are ready we’ll start.”

They found horses already saddled waiting for them at the front door, and together they cantered down the avenue and out to the main road.

The moon was just rising as they started, and very soon it was shining upon their faces and casting long black shadows behind them. The three boys were filled with eagerness, not so much to see the town as to be introduced to that mysterious club.

They had about four miles to ride before they reached the centre of the city, and through most of this distance they were passing private villas and gardens. The mines were situated on the other side of the city.

Under the silver lustre of the moon, with the dark mystery of shadow which the shrubs and trees cast, these suburbs appeared to be centuries old. From the window-blinds of the mansions shone the mellow lamplights, while the sounds of singing and music all added to the charm of that warm and radiant night.

Many people were out on the road, enjoying the beauty of the night—parties on horseback, lovers, natives, and not a few children. They all appeared happy and careless enough.

Soon they came to the more crowded parts, all brightly lighted up with electric globes and gas-jets. Many of the shops were still open and doing a thriving trade. The hotels and canteens were, as usual, crowded, while the side paths were filled with pedestrians. All the citizens of Johannesburg seemed to be on the streets at this time, and a strange gathering of nationalities they were.

“We have some of the worst blackguards on the face of the globe here,” observed Philip, as they rode slowly along Pritchard Street.

“And some of the greatest cowards also, I should say,” replied Ned.

“You are right; blackguards are very seldom brave men, although, of course, there are exceptions to every rule.”

“I see Israel is to the fore here.”

“Yes; that is one of the causes of our past failure. A Jew will never risk his property nor person for any cause outside of business. We don’t admit Jews nor Germans into the club where we are going tonight, nor, of course, Dutchmen either.”

“I suppose we must not ask any questions about your club now?” asked Ned, timidly.

“No; we shall dismount here, and leave our horses for the present. One thing I must ask of you, and that is, whatever you may see on the streets, do not interfere. This is a rough city, after dark particularly, and swarming with the vilest of both sexes. Yet restrain your generous instincts and do not pause either to remonstrate or protest. You will see and hear much to raise your just indignation, but keep your feelings under, or you will be of no use to the cause.”

It was a timely warning, and the boys acted upon it, although their chivalrous feelings were sorely tried during that night walk. Almost from the moment they turned from the hotel, where they left their horses, to the time they entered the club-house, their eyes and ears were affronted by evidences of unbridled licence and brutal tyranny.

All the inhabitants appeared to be more or less under the influence of drink, women as well as men. They were generally all well dressed, most of them overdressed, while on shirt-fronts and bare necks blazed out flashing diamonds.

“Are there no respectable people in Johannesburg?” asked the boys in astonishment.

“The respectable people mostly stay at home on nights like this,” replied Philip. “What you see are the scum of nations drawn here by the scent of gold, as vultures are to a battlefield. These are the camp followers of the great god Mammon, greater foes to freedom and progress than are the Boers. They are nearly all either thieves, spies, or reasonless beasts.”

It was a gay sight and for ever changing. The women with their shining dresses and flashing diamonds looked like fireflies as they flaunted along under the electric lights from canteen to canteen. Tram-cars, Cape carts, cabs, and horsemen filled up the centre of the streets, while black men, and whites, showing prominent noses and smoking enormous cigars, passed to and fro incessantly.

And amongst them swaggered shaggy-bearded and badly dressed Boers, scowling or jeering coarsely at the crowd they pushed so rudely through.

They heard one drunken fellow begin to shout out, “Rule, Britannia,” but he was immediately seized by a couple of Zarps and dragged off to prison. No one interfered on his behalf, nor did our heroes feel much pity either; he had such an atrocious rasping voice that they were almost grateful to the Boers for silencing it. At last they turned down a quiet street, and soon reached a house where the front door stood wide open, and where the first-flat windows were lighted up.

“This is our club,” said Philip, as they entered.

There was an office in the hall where lay a visitors’ book. In this he entered their names, with his own. Then, with a nod to the silent hall-keeper, he showed them upstairs.

“Our reading-room,” Philip said, as he ushered them into a large room comfortably furnished.

There were a good number of gentlemen assembled, reading papers and magazines, or writing. Philip looked about him keenly, and, nodding to several, took a chair and touched the electric bell. Almost immediately a waiter entered from another room.

“The committee are waiting for you, sir,” whispered the waiter to Philip.

“All right. Excuse me for a few moments, boys. You will find all the latest magazines here, and I’ll not be long.”

He went out of the room, and left them to amuse themselves as they best could amongst the papers and magazines.

They had not very long to wait, however, before he returned and said—

“Now, boys, come with me, and I’ll show you the other parts of these premises.”

Chapter Ten.

The Three Aces.

There was nothing about the premises of the Three Ace Club so far to show its character. It was entered as a non-political club for British Africanders. As drink and gambling were strictly prohibited, and its object was more for reading than social intercourse or discussion, it was regarded as a very slow affair by the majority of the community, and only patronised by the most staid and respectable. A considerable number of members, however, were entered upon its books, and as far as subscriptions went, it was in a flourishing enough condition.

It had been organised since the fiasco of 1896, and although Uncle Paul had regarded it with suspicion at first, its respectable and sleepy character had allayed even his suspicions.

Philip Martin led the boys up to the second landing, and then, taking them into a bedroom, he shut the door.

“I am about to confide in you, my lads, a secret which you must promise never to reveal to any one.”

“You may depend upon us.”

“I feel I can, otherwise I should not have brought you here. You may have read about the insurrection of 1896, when the Boers disarmed the citizens. They were disappointed in only finding four thousand rifles instead of the thirty thousand they were led to expect.”

“Yes; it was generally thought that the reformers had been boasting.”

“That was the general impression, and so I also thought before I came to Johannesburg and was initiated.”

“Had they this number of weapons?” asked Ned.

“Yes; more than that number, as you will see presently.”

“Then why did the cowards hold back and allow Dr Jim to be defeated?”

“Because, firstly, they had a majority of cowards amongst them; and, secondly, because they were not properly organised, and the leaders were afraid to trust their men. Now, however, we have altered all that. Come with me, and you will see our arsenal.”

He opened the door of a wardrobe which stood at the side of the wall, and, pulling out the drawer first, he touched a secret spring, and immediately the bottom moved up and showed them a flight of stairs underneath.

“This is the way down. You go first, while I close the entrance.”

He had only to pull back the drawer from the inside, and the aperture was securely fastened, wardrobe door and all.

He struck a wax vesta, and showed them their course down the steps, which were like the steps down to the stoke-holes of an ocean liner.

“These steps can all be raised and laid flat against the ceilings of each landing, as well as covered from sight, at a moment’s notice,” explained Philip, as they went down. “In the flat below, which we entered, is a press, through which we pass, with shelves that drop down when the ladders are raised.”

“It is very ingenious.”

“Very, and unless a traitor showed the working, quite impossible to discover. We are now passing through the pantry on the ground floor. Now we are below the street.”

The steps they had used hitherto were composed of iron, felt covered, but now they were descending solid stone stairs, also carpeted with thick felt to deaden the sound of their feet.

The walls and roof were likewise composed of stone and covered with cement, while at regular intervals along the ceiling were electric globes, which gave them plenty of light.

They went down about forty of these stone steps before they came to level ground, and then, before them, they saw a long, straight, and well-lighted lobby with an arched roof.

“This is the secret of the Three Ace Club. We have to take precautions when we have the like of Oom Paul to deal with,” remarked Philip, with a smile. “Here you may make as much noise as you like, for no one outside could hear even a gun report. We have stopped the echo.”

“It must have cost something to excavate this vault,” said the boys.

“Yes; a good deal of Rand money has been sunk here. But come and see our shooting-gallery, arsenal, and general meeting-place.”

He led the way along the lobby until they came to a door, against which he gave three loud knocks, at the same time pressing a knob.

Immediately the door opened, and they entered.

An underground hall of four hundred feet spread before them, in which were assembled a number of men.

It was lighted like the lobby by electricity, and lined, floor, ceiling, walls, and doors, with felt. At the far end were placed three targets, and all round on racks, from floor to ceiling, were rifles. Not thirty thousand, but over a hundred thousand weapons, were here placed ready for use.

Along two sides were placed a row of maxim guns. Ted counted thirty to each side. He also noticed that there were several doors at different parts of this vast gallery.

Philip Martin saw their amazement, and smiled again.

“You see we are not altogether so much at the mercy of the Boers as they fondly imagine. That door to your right leads off to our magazine, where we have sufficient ammunition for our purpose. That other door on your left leads to a tunnel which we are at present engaged in boring. When finished it will take us into the fort where Kruger has fixed his Krupps. We are more than two-thirds on the way now. Those other doors are exits, and lead to different parts of the city. Oh yes, when next we rise, if we are forced, it shall not be against our wives and children that the fort guns will be discharged. We’ll use them for another purpose, and be much obliged to Oom Paul for his valuable gift.”

Philip Martin was treating these young novices as if they were sage men, which proved his knowledge of human nature. If you wish a boy to act like a man, treat him like a man, and respect his amour propre.

He was showing them round as if they were distinguished visitors, and opening his mind to them with a frankness that won their hearts completely. It flattered their self-respect and quickened their reflective faculties. They felt that they were expected to feel, speak, and act like the men they were amongst, and whose lives were entrusted to their discretion.

Then they become grave, attentive, and observant, and got into the proper mood for the work that lay before them. In England men are apt to underrate boys, therefore they grow slowly. Napoleon never made this mistake, but then he was young himself when he became a man, and moulded his ideas from the youthful heroes of the great past.

Philip Martin, like Napoleon, had the timely quality of being able to appreciate young men. He knew from experience that heroism comes more natural to a youth than to a sage. Johannesburg had been chock-a-block with prudent sages during the last conspiracy, which had so miserably failed. He meant to work with enthusiasts this time—have men who needed curbing instead of urging.

The effect of this treatment was that our heroes, however much amazed they were at what they saw, managed to control their feelings, and look coolly about them. The only thing which caused them regret was, every arrangement had already been made, and they seemed to have arrived too late to be of the slightest use.

“Johannesburg seems to be already in the hands of your party, Mr Martin. I fear we can be of but small service to you,” said Ned, sadly.

“Don’t think such a thing, my lad,” replied Philip, warmly. “The message you brought in from Cecil Rhodes entitles you to our deepest gratitude, as you will know perhaps presently. It was too important a bit of paper to be trusted to an ordinary messenger, and as you are a new-comer and young, you and your friends are just the kind we most urgently require. As for Johannesburg being in our hands because we have weapons, and will soon be able to hold the fort, that is of very little advantage to us while the Home Government work with the Boers and forbid us to claim our rights. We are helpless, even with this arsenal in our midst, to do more than protect our lives if our masters wantonly attack us. We must wait for them to begin hostilities. Say, are you fair marksmen?”

“Not first rate, but we have had some practise in Stellenbosch.”

“Then go over to the rack there and select rifles, and amuse yourselves by trying to get some bull’s-eyes, while I talk to the committee about the news you have brought us. I’ll introduce you presently, and get you enrolled as members of our Three Ace Club.”

“What a strange name! Why do you call it this?”

“Because we believe we hold ‘three aces’ at present in the game we are playing against this rotten Republic. Oom Paul believes he holds all the aces. We give him credit of one, but that, we fear, is the trump. However, we don’t despair. With good luck and hanging on, I hope we may yet be able to call our party the four ace club yet. Then we can exhibit our hands.”

He took the boys over to where a party of young men were standing, and introduced them, telling them to fix them up with cartridges and have some practice. Then he went and joined some of the elders, amongst whom Clarence saw his father.

They were received in a very friendly way by the young fellows. That they were there at all was guarantee enough for their principles.

For the next half-hour their attention was fully occupied by the target in front of them. Out of a dozen shots each, Ned put nine into the centre, Clarence eight, and Fred ten, at the four hundred yards.

They were congratulated by their companions, and would have been fairly satisfied only that they found the others so much better. Out of six dozen of the other cartridges, only one struck the other edge of the mark; the other seventy-one went straight, one over the other, right in the centre. The man who struck the edge looked disgusted with himself.

As for those other nine misses, they could easily be counted on the white.

The self-satisfaction of our heroes died away at their own miserable display. They felt suddenly as if they were worthy only of contempt.

“It isn’t at all bad shooting for the first try at a new target,” said the young men, encouragingly. “You must remember that we spend most of our evenings here, drilling and practising.”

That was something in their favour certainly.

“You must join our squad; we go through our manoeuvres here every night from seven till ten o’clock. We have the very best instructors in the British Army to teach us, and I reckon we will make a good show when the time arrives to show our paces above the ground.”

Our heroes resolved that, while they remained in Johannesburg, they would fill out their evenings in this way.

While they had been shooting, Philip Martin and the council were engaged in another part of the hall discussing politics. The message which Philip delivered to them seemed to give them universal satisfaction.

But they were finished now, for Philip came forward and called the boys.

“I am happy to tell you that you have been accepted as members of this society. Come and be sworn in.”

They followed him over to a table, where the secretary of the society was seated with the roll-book in front of him.

“Young gentlemen,” he said, “I am pleased to welcome you to Johannesburg, and proud to accept you as volunteers to the cause of liberty and the rights of Englishmen. Our cause is a just and a holy one, which must commend itself to every loyal member of the British race, whichever home he hails from. Our objects are threefold: first, to uphold the power and honour of our Empire, which means the spread of civilisation and humanity; secondly, the harmony and unity of Africa, and the federation of all our colonies under the protection of this Empire of Great Britain; thirdly, the downfall of all tyrants and traitors to the Empire. Experience has taught us that the Boer Government is an impossibility, and that while they, the Boers, have authority, there can be no peace or progress in Africa. They have denied us all the rights of human beings, and disgraced our name. They have shown us that they are our enemies and evil-wishers. They have cajoled us too often for us to trust them any more, for they have proved themselves to be crafty, cruel, and pitiless savages, utterly unworthy of a place among nations. Therefore we are banded together to destroy this Dutch Republic in Africa, and restore the land, that traitors to England gave to these enemies, once again to the Empire as it was before. We are banded to unite the whole of South Africa under one flag, and that flag must be the British flag. Are you prepared to swear that you will help us to achieve this end, and wipe away the stains which these savages have placed upon that flag?”

“We are,” answered our heroes, earnestly.

“With all your energies—with the last drop of your blood, if called upon?”

“We are.”

“Swear also that you will be faithful to the trust we repose in you from this night, obedient to the command of those officers who may be placed over you, and true to your comrades.”

“We swear to be faithful, obedient, and true to the cause.”

“These are the three aces which form our watchword—loyalty, obedience, and good faith. Now sign your names here, and receive your badge.”

Our heroes went home with Mr Raybold that night proud that they were at least members of this noble brotherhood, and prepared to live and die worthy of the small joined aces which they carried in their pockets.

Chapter Eleven.

The Boer Paramount.

The life which our heroes led for the next few weeks in Johannesburg, although excessively useful, was not momentous. They learned to be sure of hitting the centre of the bull’s-eye with every shot. Also, what would be of more service in actual Boer warfare, they mastered the science of taking a bead swiftly and hitting a rapidly moving object. Sword and bayonet exercises were not neglected, nor horse and foot drill.

They saw the miners at work on the tunnel that was slowly crawling towards the German-filled fort, and helped to carry the débris through one of the several exits. This was the most delicate part of the work, yet it was managed without much difficulty by the numerous members who composed the league.

During the daytime they walked about the city or rode over the veldt, getting gradually acquainted with most of their brothers, and learning whom to avoid amongst the inhabitants.

They no longer wondered why the former rising had ended in disaster. Amongst all the crowds who were called Uitlanders not a sixth portion were, even at this time, bona fide Britishers. At the time of Dr Jim’s gallant raid they were not a twelfth part. The rest of the population was made up of Russians, French, and German Jews, with a large sprinkling of other nationalities. Germans mostly, however, predominated, and they made no secret of their deep and violent hatred of everything British. Not a single Englishman was employed in any public department either in Johannesburg or anywhere else throughout the Transvaal. The labourers even, who were employed by Government were either Germans or Hollanders when they were not Kaffirs. In the highest posts were placed Boers, Hollanders, and Germans exclusively. It was a clear case of “no English need apply” to any burgher employer.

The president, Paul Kruger, and his bigoted and ignorant Executive Council had got every concession which crafty greed and tyranny could get from cowardice and treason. They had introduced German soldiers wholesale into their country, and purchased nearly all the arms and ammunition which had entered Africa for the past two years. This, with blind and misplaced confidence, they had been allowed to do by the other colonists. Indeed, throughout Cape Colony and Natal, the Dutch Africanders had been openly spending all their spare money in arming themselves, while the colonials, as a majority, had been watching them doing this, and neglecting to take the same precautions. At the present moment, to all appearance, the Boers and their friends were the only effectively armed people throughout South Africa. We must except, of course, those who were under the influence of Cecil Rhodes—the men of Rhodesia and the Three Ace Club league. Affairs were in a fairly quiescent condition at present. The citizens of Johannesburg had given over asking for their rights, and accepted each fresh insult and oppression quietly, and without outward remonstrance. They knew such were utterly futile with that obstinate bigot, who regarded himself as an avenging instrument in the hands of the Lord.

Neither was it any secret what all these warlike preparations were aiming at. If the Home Government shut its eyes, not a man, woman, or child in Africa but knew that the old man of Pretoria intended nothing less than the subjugating of Africa to the Boers, as soon as matters were ripe enough. They would soon find excuses for their violence and treason when they were ready to begin. As for the anarchy and massacres that would follow, they were satisfied that they would find plenty of defenders amongst the reptile gangs of Little Englanders, who were at present doing their utmost to help them in their work of destruction. It was an open secret that the hated English were to be driven out of Africa, and the country torn from the empire.

This was to be the result of our clemency and weak indulgence to a race who understood only revenge and oppression. The remorseless principles and inhuman tenets of the Boer religion belonged to those dark ages which civilisation and the true knowledge of Christianity has swept from the other portions of the globe where the Bible is known and honoured. Their colonial history is a long record of steadfast atrocity and abuse of power. Wherever they have trekked they have left a broad trail of blood and disaster. Wherever they have settled, progress has ceased to exist. They are, as a race, the most ignorant, the most remorseless, and the rudest of barbarians.

The history of Africa, from the most remote ages, has been one of conquest. There are, therefore, no aboriginal owners to restrain the hand of the taker, or lay bona fide claims to compensation for land seized. It has been, in the past, ruthlessly torn from the weak by the strong, and held only by force of arms. Humanitarians, therefore, cannot urge the claims of the Kaffirs over the white conquerors. From a humanitarian point of view, the race that has proved most worthy of advancing humanity and civilisation has the best of all possible rights to this open country.

For the sake of future races, it is only one of the great existing nations that dare take up this grave responsibility.

Neither Germany, France, nor Russia, so far as their colonial policy and history is concerned, have shown that they are adapted for this great work. England only has proved that she is equal to the task, as long ago, Imperial Rome did in a lesser way. Our great empire liberates and advances every land which she protects. She frees the slave, educates the savage, and makes the black man equal with the white. She welcomes the stranger within her gates, asks no tyrannical pledges from the Uitlander before she gives him employment and all the rights of her own children. She embraces all humanity as her children, without shackling them with conditions, either individually or tribal. Whatever king or chief they owe allegiance to—whatever flag they honour—makes, no difference to their rights as colonists and citizens while they live under and claim the protection of the British flag. This is our best defence for our right to extend and hold our empire in the face of envious enemies and internal traitors. What we give up, or lose, or forego is a distinct loss to civilisation, progression, and humanity. We are the only holders and dispensers of liberty. The German makes a good colonist under British control; so do the French, the Dutch, and many of the other clans on the earth’s surface.

But when Germany seizes a land she treats it as the warlike Kaffirs did. She butchers the original owners, and insists on all outsiders relinquishing their private rights, and becoming subjects. As the Kaiser has truly said, “On whatever land the German Eagle fixes its talons, that land is German.” This means, it is no longer free, only a German is entitled to civil rights.

The Boer, wherever he has possessed any authority, has pursued a similar policy, only, being more medieval and ignorantly conservative in his ideas, he goes many steps further in his candid tyranny than does his friend the German. His religion is a blending of gross superstition, narrowness, intolerance, and Judaism in its most relentless and savage aspect.

He honestly believes in the justice of the curse of Ham; but he believes more, for, like the Moslem with his women, he says that the dark races of the earth are like the beasts, soulless; whom to shoot down is no murder; whom to enslave is his right, as one of the masterful and heaven-favoured races.

He believes in revenge and hatred as sacred duties. “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,” are words which he gloats upon.

According to the patriarchal laws he is a good husband and father, and will fight for his own like any red Indian. Like all savages, however, he does not care for fighting in the open. He prefers to skulk behind rocks, and take his enemy at a disadvantage.

He is a mass of gross superstition; in this he even surpasses the Kaffir. He believes fervently in ghosts and omens, and dreads the dark with trembling horror. He is utterly devoid of chivalry, truth, or common honesty. A pledge in his estimation means only an expedient to hoodwink his adversary and gain time. He will make a promise at any time, and break it without the slightest scruple. He laughs at those who trust him, as fools. Like the wild boar, he hates to see his lair disturbed. He would much rather trek than live where civilisation is. He is rude, uncouth, and pre-eminently inhospitable, and prefers his own ignorance and superstition to enlightenment. By nature he is a morose and uncompromising savage who has no place among civilised races, and not the faintest conception of democracy.

His greed is sateless; his audacity boundless; and his sense of gratitude nil. Philanthropy and mercy are qualities which he despises, because he cannot understand them. He professes to believe in the Redeemer of mankind, but he draws his inspirations from the passages of Scripture that suit his peculiar temperament, and the ethics of Christianity do not. As a nation, he is as utterly impossible as the Turk, therefore is completely out of place in the Transvaal.

The past history of the Boers in Africa has proved this beyond dispute. They have slaughtered mercilessly, and oppressed their neighbours wherever they have settled. It is only by the strong hand that they have been kept so far within bounds.

Their principal grievance against us is that we freed their slaves, and they nurse this grievance with undying hatred. They have murdered our settlers ruthlessly, betrayed our statesmen, and mocked us for our weaknesses. They remember their supposed wrongs, and lose no chance of repaying them by brutality and treachery, and mock at our generosity in forgetting what they have done.

Ah! the gallant sons we have lost through trusting those ruthless murderers! England may forget, but what of the mothers, wives, sisters, fathers, and brothers of those who lie buried, and yet unavenged?

It is possible to pardon a brave enemy who has fought fairly. As Englishmen, we do this always—but only after we have wiped out the blot. But what true Englishman could forgive the bloody assassin who walks about boasting over his crime? What true Englishman could sit down tamely, and swallow insult and slavery, as well as murder?

These were the inhuman, hating, and ferocious enemies which some Englishmen delighted to honour, sympathise with, and admire, for their treatment of those Englishmen who had saved their Republic from ruin, and poured wealth into their rapacious pockets. The tactics of their obstinate and superstitious president is world known. His shamelessness, greed, craft, and unblushing falsehood, his open enmity, his avarice, and dense stupidity, all these qualities are representative of his people, and what we are asked to admire and sympathise with. Standing as we do afar off, we are apt to forget the atrocious side of the Boer, and regard the ridiculous side with good-natured contempt.

But to those in the midst of it all, it was by no means a matter to laugh at. The constant reminders of those atrocities and disgraces, the wanton insults, the brutal treatment, the persistent turning round of the screw, without a moment of relaxation, were maddening even to the meekest and most long-suffering.

As we have already shown, our heroes did not come of a mute and lowly race. They had British blood in their veins—young English blood that was quickly heated. Since their coming to the Transvaal this blood had been at boiling pitch.

They tried to hearken to the words of prudence as preached by Philip Martin and Mr Raybold. They tried to obey their leaders, and shut their eyes to the daily outrages of justice which they beheld, and act in away which their hearts told them was base cowardice.

They saw ladies hustled rudely by rough and armed clowns from the footpath amongst the mud. They listened to coarse epithets shouted at their countrywomen if they looked indignant at this usage, and did their best to keep their hands in their pockets and their eyes on the ground.

They saw the German mercenaries knock down, kick, and baton the citizens without the slightest provocation, and the citizens take their unmerited punishment without remonstrance, knowing full well there was no possible redress from the Boer authorities. They saw Boers spit on the beards of Englishmen, and they only take out and use their handkerchiefs to wipe the hateful stains away. They saw children ill-treated because their parents were English, and the parents lift up their children and soothe them, without attempting to punish the wretches who had made those innocents weep.

They saw all this and grosser outrages constantly being enacted under their eyes, and while they looked they ground their teeth, and wondered how long they would be able to endure this horrible restraint upon their pent-up feelings.

“It will be our turn before long to be batoned,” remarked Fred, quietly. “We cannot expect to be allowed to walk the streets much longer without being molested.”

“The Boer or German who attempts to lay a finger on me had better look out. I’ll leave my mark on him,” replied Ned, grimly.

“We’ll be there at the same time with our signatures,” put in Clarence, cheerfully.

Fred was right in his prognostications of evil. Their independent bearing had already been remarked upon by the police, and their turn came sooner even than they expected.

Chapter Twelve.

Our Heroes are Arrested.

One morning they had come into town, to have their customary promenade, listen to the latest news, and keep their blood flowing by watching the sights. Like Paddy, they were trying how much they could stand of this music, and vainly hoping to get used to it by constant habit.

The city had been more than usually in a ferment during the past week. It had been the election week, and although none of the Johannesburghers had much hope of a change, yet until the affair was decided, there had been a good deal of wordy speculation.

However, as even the most credulous feared, Oom Paul Kruger had once more managed to keep his chair, thanks to his simple and direct management. While he was travelling the country canvassing for votes, the old hypocrite played with his people, as the man who wants to buy an annuity plays with the insurance company. He did the sick and feeble old man who had only a few months more to live, and appealed to the sympathy of those who were tired of him as a master. He played this rôle so perfectly as to deceive even his own intimates. As for the Uitlanders, he humbugged them so completely that they became jubilant about the nearness of their emancipation. Even for a little while the news of his return did not depress them overmuch. This they considered to be a dead certainty, with the ballot boxes in the hands of his supporters.

A rumour had somehow spread, on the day after the announcement of the result, that he was dead. For one whole hour Johannesburg lost its head, and became intoxicated with joy. Shareholders bounced inside the chain, while some were even mad enough to wire the happy event to London, where for another hour on the Stock Exchange Paul Kruger gained more popularity than he had ever gained in his life.

But, alas! they were not long left to this most unseemly joy. Hardly had they wiped their mouths after drinking to his safe translation to another sphere than the Grand Old Man of Pretoria showed them how dead he was.

He enjoyed giving them surprises, and the one he sprang on them now was the summary dismissal of Chief Justice Kotze, the only Dutchman who was above bribery or coercion.

Now, indeed, he was beginning his fresh tenure without any pretence of wearing gloves. Whoever dared to oppose his autocratic tyranny, and stand up for any other laws than those which his will dictated, was to be swept out of the way. At this act of tyranny, worse than any that the Stuarts ever perpetrated, even Philip Martin looked anxious.

“It is the beginning of the end,” he said. “Cecil Rhodes’s last message was for us to hold on and lie low. How much longer will we be allowed to do this?”

Kotze protested against this unlawful outrage, and refused to accept his dismissal. But he gained no more by that than the Uitlanders had done.

The inhabitants of Johannesburg were struck dumb when they heard of this scandal, coupled with the tidings that the president’s late illness had been all shammed. Even the Boers themselves were staggered, as this touched their rights as much as it demolished all safety for the Uitlanders. Throughout Africa a wave of expectant horror passed. What would this hoary tyrant not do next, now that he had demolished the law? He was supreme. Anarchy and massacre would possibly be the next order of the day.

Once again, as in the time of the Jameson Raid, men began to send away their wives and children, and prepare themselves for the inevitable.

On the morning that our heroes took their walk, they found the streets and between the chains blocked with people.

But no business was being done, neither did men venture to speak to each other. Every one suspected his fellow to be a spy. Business was at a complete stand, and they watched the Zarps hustling the pedestrians about, and inwardly speculated when the Krupp guns would begin their devastating work.

Anything might be expected now from Pretoria. With that first act Kruger had pitched the gauntlet straight in the face of England. Surely he must have already completed his arrangements with Germany.

Halfway down the street the young men met Philip Martin. He was no longer looking so anxious as he had been the past few days. He stopped for a moment and whispered to Ned.

“Hold yourselves in readiness to leave for Rhodesia tomorrow. I shall have a message for you to carry.”

“Oh,” replied Ned, a little disappointed. “Must we clear out before the fun begins?”

“Don’t be afraid. Nothing will take place here yet awhile. This present buster will blow over. I have just had a bit of news which will make the old gentleman draw in his horns for a bit.”

“That’s all right,” answered Ned, laughing.

Philip Martin had only turned his back on them when four Zarps, who had been watching them, came forward, scattering the people to right and left.

Their batons were drawn, and their purpose unmistakable. Doom had come upon our heroes.

“Look out, boys!” cried Ned, as he sprang to the nearest wall, and planted his back against it. As he did so, he saw amongst the onlookers Stephanus Groblaar.

Fred and Clarence ranged themselves alongside of their chum with alacrity.

“Now, then, come along, you white-livered Uitlanders!” cried the Zarps, closing in and raising their batons.

“Go with them quietly,” shouted the onlookers, warningly, as they saw the boys were preparing to resist.

Philip Martin had by this time rounded the corner, without seeing what had happened.

“Yes; take your licking like true Englishmen!” cried Stephanus, mockingly.

“Don’t be afraid—we shall!” answered Ned, casting prudence to the winds, as he darted to one side to avoid the falling baton.

It grazed his shoulder, while his aggressor stumbled forward with an ugly oath.

Next moment he was sprawling on his back, with a mouth filled with loose teeth and gore, while Ned caught the baton adroitly as it flew from his grasp.

As he caught it, he swung it round and landed it with crushing force on the jaws of the second officer. A sound of breaking bones was heard, while the Boer went down like a felled ox.

“Hurrah, boys! Go at it!” shouted Ned, leaping in to help his chums.

Clarence had been struck, and was lying also on the ground. But Fred Weldon was giving a good account of himself, dodging the baton of the Boer—an immense fellow—and getting in some facers, which made the baton strokes uncertain.

With a strong tap on the back of the Boer’s cranium, which was bare, Ned quickly sent him alongside of his two mates.

Then for a moment the fray was over, for the remaining policeman had rushed to the outside of the ring, and was blowing his whistle for help.

“Bolt!” cried the crowd, opening a lane for them, although otherwise they did not offer to help.

“No, you don’t,” cried Stephanus, covering the two boys with his revolver. “Move a foot and I’ll riddle you.”

Ned looked down at poor Clarence, who was lying senseless on the ground, and decided that the game was up. He therefore glanced towards Stephanus and cried with a scornful laugh—

“I won’t run away, Stephanus Groblaar, and you may have this useless baton.” As he uttered the words he pitched the baton full at his enemy.

Stephanus fired as the baton left Ned’s hand, while he ducked. Where the head of Ned had been the bullet struck the wall and knocked a piece of stone out.

But Stephanus had no time to fire again or evade the baton. Full in the face it struck him, and down he also went.

A faint cheer broke from some of the onlookers, while they turned and scattered, leaving the victims to their fate. The Zarps were coming in force.

Ned saw them coming, and, jumping over to Stephanus, he plucked the smoking revolver from his grasp, and quickly returned to the wall.

“We’re in for it now, Fred. I guess we’ll be hanged for this morning’s work.”

“What’s the odds?” replied Fred. “We’ve shown them that English men are not curs.”

“Stand back, you fellows, or I’ll pot some of you. We surrender, only let us go gently.”

“Ugh!” grunted the Boers, as they looked round them at the carnage. “Throw aside your shooter. We won’t hurt you and spoil the gallows.”

Ned flung down the revolver, while some of the police went for stretchers. The others contented themselves with closing round.

Seeing that they did not offer to molest them, the boys knelt down to look after Clarence. He had been hit over the head and stunned, but was now recovering. As they lifted him up he opened his eyes and groaned. Then he struggled up and looked round him, somewhat confused, for a second or two.

“Hallo! Is it all over?”

“Yes, Clar,” replied Ned. “All over, for the present. The next scene will be prison. Can you walk?”

“I’d rather say so,” replied Clarence, rubbing his skull gently. “By Jumbo! but that was a clinker I got. It has made a new bump as big as an ostrich egg. Ah yes, I can waltz along with you two.”

To the surprise of our heroes, their captors treated them quite gently on their way to jail. They merely held them firmly by the arms, and did not attempt either to kick or jerk them about, as was generally done with prisoners.

Behind them came the stretchers with the wounded men who lay inertly, and after them followed a numerous crowd. The men kept silence, but the women waved their handkerchiefs and cheered.

Ned, Fred, and Clarence had won popularity. Even the Boers treated them with grim respect, and said—

“These pups can bite as well as bark. Ugh, it’s a pity they are not Boers.”

About a couple of hours after their incarceration they received a visit from Mr Raybold. He had come as soon as he heard about the affair, and although he looked very grave, yet he did not reproach them.

“I expected something like this from you young blades; but it is a serious scrape for all that.”

“Any of them killed?” asked Ned, coolly.

“No, not quite so bad. You have broken one man’s jaw, and spoilt the nose of young Groblaar. The other two are not much the worse, only they’ll make the most of their bruises.”

“I suppose so; when they make such an outcry over the couple of men they lost at Krugersdorp. What do you think will be done to us?”

“You’ll be sent on to Pretoria first place. But what will happen next, no one can foretell. They may sentence you to death, or hard labour for life. I hope I may be able to get you off with a heavy fine, as the Boers love cash almost as much as they do revenge. What were you doing when they set upon you?”

“Absolutely nothing,” replied Ned. “We had just parted with Mr Martin, and were about to move on, when four big scoundrels pounced upon us.”

“That will not matter,” replied Mr Raybold, dolefully. “Oom Paul has denied any hearing or trial for Chief Justice Kotze. He charged him with maladministration of justice, and swore in the Volksraad that he was a liar. When they can treat their own judges in this fashion, they are capable of hatching up any charge against you. However, we shall not have long to wait before we know.”

“I hope you won’t pay any fines for us, sir,” said Ned. “I am sure we would all rather go to hard labour, or whatever else they like to sentence us to.”

“We shall see,” returned Mr Raybold, shaking his head sadly. “I wish this day had passed in peace, for tomorrow you would have been out of this tyrant’s clutches.”

“We are sorry also in one way, but our resistance has not made much difference. I fancy Stephanus Groblaar has got up some story about us. I had a quarrel with him out on the veldt, and for some reason he seems to bear me ill-will.”

“Ah! tell me about that?” said Mr Raybold, quickly.

Ned told him about the fight, and the words he had used on that occasion.

“This is bad—very bad. They sentenced a man the other day to two years’ hard labour for merely shouting on the Rand, ‘Nobody gets justice in this country.’ What that fine speech of yours may cost us, with the additions which this young Groblaar may put to it, it is hard to say. Never mind. Keep up your courage, lads. Your friends will not leave you undefended; and we are all mighty proud of you for your pluck.”

Clarence took leave of his father very tenderly, while the others received warm hand-grasps. Then the Rand capitalist left them a good deal comforted by the interview.

They did not know, but to be able to see them at all had cost Mr Raybold a tidy sum in the way of palm-oiling. Like the Eastern prisons, as in every other department of this Republican Government, corruption ran very high, from the President to the meanest official.

On the following morning they were examined, and charged with a whole list of offences; then, after this preliminary farce was over, they were handcuffed and taken, closely guarded, to Pretoria to be tried.

Chapter Thirteen.

Tronk Life.

Although our heroes had been brought up amidst the comforts and refinements of better-class English life, they were not fastidious.

Their recent overland experience among the burgher farmers had taken a good deal of the fine edge off their susceptibilities as to eating, drinking, and lodgment. It had also opened their eyes considerably as to the inconsistency of humanity. Those bare, dirty, and barn-like homesteads which satisfied the Boers generation after generation, and compared to which many of the huts of the Kaffirs were fragrant—the cow-dung and blood-blended plaster and flooring—were, to say the least, peculiar in their aroma to the nostrils of strangers. Added to this, the strong flavour of the Boer tobacco, with which those dens reeked, rendered the atmosphere more powerful than pleasant to any except a Boer family. To them, however, it smelt home-like and grateful.

Outside, the approaches to a Boer farm were kept in a state of absolute and traditional disregard to all sanitary laws. The refuse and decay teemed with disease and abomination. No wanderer required a candle in the window to light them to these abodes of the dopper. Their olfactory organs would have been quick enough, even while suffering under the most virulent cold, for at least half a league distant. Wherever the Boer settled, that part of the veldt became a pigsty.

Our heroes had experienced all this, and become case-hardened against unholy perfumes and disgusting sights. Their digestive organs had also become used to the tough biltong, vile coffee, and unvaried nightly stews. Thus they were able to stand a good deal of dirt and discomfort without noticing details.

They had also gained a considerable insight of the Boers’ other peculiarities. Their utter lack of humour and sullen stolidity; their merciless barbarity to their servants and cattle, joined to their stern and one-sided religious fervour. The Bible, the cowhide, and the rifle were always kept handy for constant use by those pious dopper farmers. The word of God for themselves and families. The cowhide for their cattle and servants, and the rifle where the cowhide failed to convince.

They had seen these farmers flog the Kaffirs within an inch of their lives for the slightest offence, or perhaps because the master was in a bad temper, and the Kaffir chanced to be in his road. They had seen them bring out their guns, if the braced-up and lacerated natives looked nasty, and deliberately shoot them dead, then go indoors immediately after, read their Bibles, sing their psalms, and thank the Lord of hosts for giving them grace. Their infernal cruelties never touched their consciences in the slightest degree, and they had no fear of the laws of the land condemning them. Each Boer made his own laws, and these were merciless. There was no justice for the native; he was a beast to be down-trodden and enslaved. His land and his life were theirs, the chosen people of the Lord, to abuse or murder as they pleased.

Yet they never neglected family worship. Nor would they permit the stranger to go from them without reading a chapter, and delivering themselves of an unctuous prayer. Sylvan life amongst the pious doppers was very unlovely and revolting.

Having already experienced so much, the young men hardly noticed the filthy and disgraceful conditions of the Johannesburg tronk, or jail. That they were crammed into a small cell of ten by twenty feet, along with twenty-five other prisoners, was nasty; yet they endured this fate with as much philosophy as they could.

Twenty-eight prisoners, waiting their trial, were immured in this suffocating, dark, and noisome den, which could be compared with nothing else than the hold of a slaver, or the black hole of Calcutta. A third of these were Kaffir women, and the majority of the rest, the vilest and most foul-mouthed scum in Johannesburg.

There was no separation of the sexes; they were all crushed together, regardless of their ages or offences. The atmosphere was horrible, for there was no other ventilation than what the opening of the door gave.

It was opened occasionally by the warders as they thought fit, to give the captives a little air and prevent suffocation.

The floors were cemented, and the roof of corrugated iron; but as water is a luxury in Johannesburg, and the Boers are averse to washing and also are regardless of dirt, weeks if not months had passed since last the accumulations had been shovelled out. The mind of an Englishman at home could not conjure up any idea approaching this abomination of stench and overpowering heat.

Here our heroes had spent their first night of Boer prison life, listening, or rather trying to shut their ears, to the groans, curses, and obscenities of their fellow-captives. Packed closely together, they were forced to stand still and upright, with the perspiration pouring from them, and swallow the poison that entered their lungs instead of air.

Many—indeed, most—of these prisoners had broken heads and other wounds, and these, clotted and untended, added to the disgusting horrors.

When morning came, and they were hustled into the Pretoria train, they felt almost half dead. Faint and breathless, they gasped as they were dragged into the court, and listened to the charges with dull apathy. There was little enough fight in them now.

By the time they reached Pretoria, however, their young constitutions, aided by the fresh veldt air, had restored both their appetites and their courage. In spite of their jailors’ grunts of disapproval, they were laughing and jesting more from bravado than through good spirits.

“We must show them we are game, no matter what happens to us,” said Ned; and his chums’ loyalty backed him up.

In the same train, but in a different compartment, Stephanus Groblaar and the wounded and battered Zarps travelled to give their evidence. The boys caught a glimpse of Stephanus as he got out, and could not help enjoying the sight. The baton had smashed the bridge of his nose and spoilt what little beauty he possessed. He was marked for life, so that they would recognise him under any disguise almost. They caught his one eye glaring luridly on Ned, for the other was bandaged up, and they grinned broadly as they were pushed past.

They were marched along to the tronk, getting hasty glimpses of the Dopper Kirk, where Oom Paul sometimes preaches; the frowning forts and warlike batteries which he has erected at so much expense to his insolvent government, as a sign of the friendly disposition of the Volksraad towards the Uitlander, and the open gallows and stocks, which also were tokens of the social advancement of the constitution. That church obstructing the traffic was typical of the people’s wisdom and foresight, as their town lying in the swamp was. They doted on mud and pestilential swamps, as they piously believed in obstruction, dirt, bad drainage, and public executions.

The Pretoria tronk—at least, the part into which our heroes were locked—was a shade more endurable than had been their lodging of the night before. Morality, if not sanitary arrangements, was slightly more observed.

Their cell, which was the same size as the last, was not quite so crowded, and they had white companions only, and of their own sex. Between them and the Kaffirs was a sheet of corrugated iron.

Small holes were bored in the sheet-iron walls; these were, however, close to the roof, and did not give them much fresh air. During the day the heat was intense, as the thin iron became almost red-hot under the sun glare. At night it was in proportion cold.

There had been thirty-five prisoners in this cell two days before, but eighteen of these had been removed; thus they had only seventeen companions waiting their sentences. Fortunately, also, the majority of these prisoners were respectable citizens, whose crimes were as yet to be invented. Like our heroes, they had been seized upon without any pretext, without being aware yet of the charges. They would learn all that at the time appointed by their tyrants.

Small straw mattresses were given to them to sleep on at nights; these were placed side by side along the walls, leaving a narrow gangway between. These mattresses had served hundreds of prisoners before them; they were dirty in the extreme, worn by holes, and infested by other inhabitants beside themselves, that not only did not sleep when darkness fell, but did their best to murder sleep. A Salvation Army night-shelter might be as lively, but it could not be worse than were those unhallowed beds. They were placed upon the ground, and each morning were taken out and aired in the exercise-yard. Otherwise the cells were devoid of furniture. There were neither seats nor tables.

All that afternoon the prisoners sat looking on the ground, as far away from the heated walls as they could get. As they had come in time for dinner, they got a basin of thin soup with some hard meat and black bread. This they devoured eagerly. At four o’clock they had a supper of mealie with salt and water. Then their beds were brought in, and they prepared to enjoy themselves. They were able to breathe; that was the sole comfort of that shivering night. Being dog-tired with their previous night’s vigil, in spite of the tormentors that bit and stung them incessantly, our heroes soon fell asleep and forgot their miseries.

In the morning at seven o’clock they got another dose of mealie-porridge and salt with water. Then they were allowed to go and wash themselves in the muddy streams that ran through the yard. All the prisoners were turned out to the yard at the same time. Kaffirs, Malays, and whites, thieves, murderers, and political prisoners, they were all mixed up like their mattresses, and permitted to wash their clothes and themselves in the same muddy stream together.

On this day they were allowed to stay in the yard until five o’clock, and as it was about one hundred and fifty feet, they were able to take good exercise and have fresh air. They were not long before they began to play leap-frog and some other games, including a wrestling match between Ned and Fred, which was watched with keen interest by the other prisoners.

At about half-past two they were pleasantly surprised by a visit from Philip Martin, who brought with him a Pretoria solicitor.

Both listened to the story of their arrest, and the lawyer took notes, after which Philip said—

“I think we shall manage to square the Zarps, so that they will let you off mildly. The man with the broken jaw we must give a golden plaster to; but your most bitter witness will be Stephanus Groblaar. He will have his knife into you, and swear anything against you. His father is a personal friend and tool of the president.”

That night they did not sleep so well; on the whole, it was the most uncomfortable time they had ever experienced. They were glad when daylight came and the doors opened to let them out.

They were first in the yard, and took advantage to be the first in the stream before it was stirred up. After their bath they once more felt ready to laugh at their discomforts and woes.

They had hardly supped their porridge, when a couple of German policemen came and marched them off solemnly.

Outside the tronk half a dozen more stiff and wooden-looking bodyguards were drawn up, armed to the teeth with rifles, swords, and revolvers. They closed in upon our heroes without a word, merely pointing to the front as their way to march. Ned, Fred, and Clarence drew themselves up with dignity, seeing that no attempt was made to handcuff them, and dusting their clothes with their handkerchiefs, stepped out proudly in the middle of their formidable escort. Handcuffs sadly spoil the effect of dignity. They make a prisoner look too pathetic.

“I wonder where these Noah’s Ark Johnnies are taking us to?” said Ned.

“To the court to be tried, I expect,” answered Fred.

“No,” said Clarence. “There is some other game going on with us. Don’t you see these are not the ordinary Boer bobbies? They are the president’s own bodyguards.”

“By Jove! so they are. Perhaps old Kruger is going to interview us. I hope so, for I’d like to see the grand old humbug.”

“Hush! These fellows are sure to understand English. All Germans do who leave their own country.”

If they did understand what Ned had so rashly said, they showed no sign. All emotion seemed to have been drilled out of their big faces, as all free action had been drilled out of their tall figures.

Solemnly they marched to the word of command with heads jerked up and immovable eyes. Right, left, right, left, they planted their feet as one man, without making a single wrinkle in their coats. They were for all the world exactly like exaggerated German metal soldiers set working by mechanism, and newly painted.

Down through the centre of Church Street they marched, the automatic movements of the guards so infecting our heroes that they unconsciously fell into the same step after a few paces. Then only one distinct tramp could be heard, as each left or right foot crushed upon the ground. The people on the side paths watched them going along curiously.

Past the grand Government buildings, with that disputed statue to Liberty on its centre tower, they strode. The enlightened burghers greatly object to this statue, as they don’t believe in a woman representing freedom, and think it must either mean Her Britannic Majesty or the Virgin Mary, both highly objectionable personages in a dopper’s eye.

On they marched, until they reached the western end of the street, where a verandahed house stood with tall trees in front of it, and on each side of the gate a helmeted police-soldier. Then they knew where they were coming to, and felt a tremor pass over them. They were approaching the kraal of the savage and crafty tyrant chief of the Transvaal, Kruger.

Chapter Fourteen.

An Interview with Uncle Paul.

It was a respectable and fair-sized house of the ordinary colonial fashion, with a broad covered verandah in front, and fine shady trees inside the rails—a comfortable and homely place, with nothing special about it to denote the character or position of its owner, except those two heavily armed sentinels at the gate.

Yet our heroes shivered slightly at the thought of the coming interview, and wished they could have put it off.

They were not frightened physically of this avowed and relentless enemy of their countrymen. Whatever he might sentence them to, they were prepared to meet and endure bravely.

It was his craft that they dreaded, lest he should by some devilish artifice lure them into a trap, and so get something out of them which would hurt their friends. They were frightened of themselves, not of this wily and ferocious Boer of Boers.

They were going to be sounded by the man who had been able to deceive and outwit the smartest British diplomatists, and instinctively they felt how powerless they would be in his hands.

That they were taken before him, prior to their examination by the landdrost, was a sign that he suspected them of being in the possession of some secret, which he would do his best to worm out of them. His scowls and threats they could defy, but his preternatural cunning they trembled to think about.

“Courage, boys, and caution,” whispered Ned, as they paused for a moment outside the gate. “Let me conduct the palaver as much as possible with this ponderous Machiavelli.”

“Right you are, Ned,” answered his chum in awestruck tones. “I wish we were safe back in the tronk, though.”

“So do I.”

Kruger, the man who could spoof Great Britain, and drive his own people like a flock of sheep, appeared, before they saw him in their imagination, to be almost as colossal a character as their ideal hero, Cecil Rhodes. Throughout Africa these two giants stood facing each other, while the rest of the world watched and waited the result of their deadly duel. Kruger, the champion of everything that was despicable, oppressive, and false; Rhodes, the champion of chivalry, humanity, and progress.

Kruger had won his past triumphs by treachery and unscrupulous steadfastness. He stood like a rock, defying reform. Rhodes also was another rock, guarding the lands outside this camp of treason. Kruger had been able to humbug the Imperial Government, and get what he wanted from them easily; but he could not humbug this sleepless and powerful watcher.

Kruger had his agents and spies everywhere; so also had Rhodes. He was fighting this Boer with his own weapons.

Kruger was rich, but he liked to hoard his capital, and get as much as he could for nothing or by promises. Cecil Rhodes spent his wealth lavishly.

Kruger was working for his own hand, and with the malignant purpose of weakening his enemy and causing discord amongst the nations. Rhodes had devoted his life and his wealth for his country’s welfare, and for the security of Africa. The one was a tyrant of the worst order; the other was inspired by the purest and most disinterested patriotism. The one was distrusted and disliked generally all round, even by a large section of his subjects; the other was universally respected and loved for his courage, brain-power, and unimpeachable honesty.

Our heroes had seen for a few moments the first champion of civilisation; they were now about to look upon his antagonist, the impious father of lies.

There was an air of stillness and depression about the place, which these two immovable policemen accentuated. The shady verandah looked dark almost in contrast with the blazing brightness outside. As the boys looked under the branches, the idea occurred to them that they were about to enter the web of a gigantic human spider. They could get in easy enough, but how would they come out?

They were not, however, kept long waiting at the gate. Their guards stopped suddenly, grounded their rifles; then, while the two gatekeepers saluted, they were pushed forward and entered the shadows. In another moment they were ushered, without ceremony, into the presence of the master.

It was a large reception-room in which Kruger sat, with a wide stretch between the door and the table at his side.

On the table were placed a huge silver tobacco-box, a large clasp Bible, and what the young men noted more particularly, the small “three ace” watch-guard tokens which had been taken from them with their other effects. There were also a few papers placed handy for, the president to reach.

He sat in a big, crimson-covered armchair, with a spittoon at his feet, and his pipe in his mouth. Behind him, on the wall, they saw through the tobacco mist a large and harshly painted oil portrait of himself. The room was smelling like a tap-room, while clouds of rank tobacco reek floated densely overhead.

Yet that portrait riveted their eyes, and forced them to look at it before even the original could command their attention—it was such an exaggerated and hideous reproduction of all his worst points. It was also so crudely and vilely painted that it seemed like a gross caricature. Indeed, it was hardly human, but rather as if it had been an imaginative attempt on the part of a house-painter, to depict a gorilla-like, semi-humanised monster.

A large red face, with swollen heavy features; narrow, bestial forehead; small, crafty, and sullen eyes, with a baboon-like fringe of white-grey hair running from the large flapping ears to below the heavy chin. The lips were shapeless, yet relentless in their downward curve.

A strange guttural and gurgling sound growled out, and drew their wondering looks from the portrait to the man himself. President Kruger was speaking; at least, they supposed that loud and deep mouthful of explosive gutturals and gurglings was his mode of expressing himself. It must have been an order, for as they glanced round, they noticed the guards quitting the apartment, and found themselves alone with the monster and his secretary or interpreter.

He was looking at them from under his sullen, pent brows, with ice-cold, piggish eyes that made them shiver again in spite of their efforts to appear brave. He was so horribly ugly, so revoltingly animal-like, and so utterly unsympathetic, that they instinctively recoiled before him. He grinned ogreishly as he observed this step backward, and taking his pipe in his huge, hairless, flabby hand, he puffed out a volume of smoke and expectorated loudly into the spittoon. Then he resumed his pipe, and leaned back in his chair, still watching them intently. He had awed them, and he was evidently delighted with the effect which he had produced, for he chuckled hoarsely as he sent out another huge volume of smoke from his wide mouth.

That grim chuckle, with the undertaker-like costume and vulgar deportment of the animal, undid the first effect of his savage glare. The boys looked again, and saw only an unmannerly, brutal, and hog-like old man, with the ugliest face they had ever seen; with elephantine proportions and shapeless great feet, filling out a gimcrack crimson chair, while his fat, coarse hands gripped the sides. His portrait had not flattered him, yet it was distinctly like him, with all its artistic faults. The narrowness and dense ignorance were all there in both picture and sitter, so also the intolerance, obstinacy, and brutality painfully pronounced with his greed, cunning, and plebeian meanness. He was the same sort of Boer as those that they had seen on the farms ill-treating their servants and cattle, the same superstitious and rude dopper who read his Bible and doggedly shut out charity from his heart. All the rudeness, filthy habits, and moroseness of his race were here in unbending and irredeemable force, carved and cemented by age and habit into the hardness of cast iron.

They were no longer appalled by his ugliness; instead, they were looking at him with undisguised loathing and contempt. Was this the man who had hoodwinked men of intellect—this low-bred, stupid, and surly beast, whose only qualities were vindictive hatred and ignorant, stupid conceit and arrogance? Surely he could deceive no one who stood face to face with him, for that countenance was an open index of all the mean vices which make men abhorred and despised? He looked and acted as if his proper place was amongst hod-carriers, not politicians.

They had hit upon the keynote of his dangerous power in their misplaced contempt. It was this appearance of stupidity that threw keen men off their guard when dealing with him—this and his hypocritical cant. He looked no more intellectual than an ignorant local preacher, and as he was constantly preaching, they forgot to look under his words. Behind all these state platitudes, and copy-book texts, he plotted with the cunning and ferocity of a relentless savage.

After watching them for full five minutes with half-shut eyes, while he puffed like a steam-engine at his pipe, he made a motion with one blunt forefinger towards the table. His attendant at once rose and handed him the tobacco-box.

This was not what he wanted; still, while it was there, he filled his pipe and lit it afresh. Then he beckoned again. This time the secretary handed him one of the ace trinkets. He took it in the palm of his paw, and regarded it with suspicious eyes; then the lips widened and the cheeks bulged out, while another mouthful of harsh sounds were belched forth. The secretary explained this jumble of gutturals to our heroes.

“Why do you wear this badge? What does it signify?”

Ned explained that it was the badge of a club in Johannesburg, of which he and his companions were members.

The president broke out as soon as he had spoken, and the secretary went on with his questions.

“We know that well enough; but how came you strangers to be members of this club?”

Ned answered because they wished it. There was no law against Englishmen joining it at once on their arrival.

“Take care, younker, and remember where you are. Answer questions, but don’t make remarks. How many members are there?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is the object of this club? Take care how you answer. We know already that its object is against the State.”

“Then it is more than I do,” answered Ned, boldly.

“What is done there?”

“Magazine and newspaper reading and letter-writing. Some of the members smoke, some play dominoes, but not often.”

“And this design—what does it mean?”

“The ace of hearts, the ace of spades, and the ace of diamonds.”

“Yes?”

“That’s all.”

“Why not the ace of clubs as well?”

“Ah! I don’t think the citizens of Johannesburg have got that ace,” answered Ned, innocently.

A chuckle came from the armchair. Then President Kruger for the first time spoke in very fair English—the tongue he understood perfectly but hated so viciously. As he spoke he smiled a fat wrinkly smile that gave his face a simple and grotesque expression of good humour. His voice was thick and rumbling.

“You are a slim carl for your age, younker. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” replied Ned.

“And you, my young brakjes?”

Not knowing that “brakje” was a term of contempt, they answered freely enough. Again Kruger chuckled, while he shook his ponderous head and pointed his clumsy finger at them.

“Far too young to be mixed up in conspiracy and treason. Young gentlemen like you ought to stay in your own country, and not come here breaking the laws and making riots.”

“We have done nothing, your Excellency,” said Ned.

“Do you call it nothing to knock down four honest burghers, smash the nose of one and the jawbone of another? Do you call it nothing to threaten my police with a revolver, and use the insolent language you have done?”

He had risen to his feet by this time, pulled himself out of the chair ponderously and by degrees. As he stood now towering above them like a hippopotamus, he impressed them with his physical strength. His eyes were beginning to lighten up dangerously.

“I have you in the hollow of my hand, you miserable brakjes, as I hold every dog in my country. What you have so foolishly spoken entitles you to hard labour for some years. The assault you committed on the authorities is punishable by death. Do you think I can allow my men to be injured in this way by boys—eh?”

“We were only defending ourselves. They struck at us first and without the slightest cause.”

“It is a verodomde lie. You belong to a nation of liars and vipers, allermachtij!” shouted Kruger, savagely, an ominous gurgle coming from his throat, while his right arm began to swing as if about to strike them, and his eyes became buried under the flesh of his upper lids.

Ned bit his lips and remained silently facing this ogre, with flashing looks.

“Ugh!” gurgled the president, controlling his rising temper as suddenly as it had been raised. “I can do all this to you, and no one dare stop me, not even your queen,” he added childishly. “I am master here, and what I will is fate. I can send you to my worst prison, where you will rot all your miserable days. But I can also be kind and merciful to those who deserve my clemency. Now, if you will be good younkers and tell me all that you know, I shall pardon you, and never send you for trial at all—nay, more, I’ll give you each a nice billet, where you can serve the Republic and make your fortune. Now, are you going to be good younkers and give me all your confidence freely, as if I was your father, or your tender-hearted uncle—Oom Paul, you know,” he chuckled unctuously—“or must I send you to rot in the tronk?”

“We are English, your Excellency, and sons of the Empire, not Dutch spies and traitors,” answered Ned, for his companions, proudly and without a pause.