The Settler and the Savage. Robert Michael Ballantyne

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Very true, sir,” replied George, touching his cap, for George was an innately respectful man—respectful to all, though with a strong tendency to humorous impudence; “very true, sir; that’s just what I thought when I see you a-meditatin’, so I went to work at once without wastin’ any time.”

      “Is zat enough?” asked Scholtz, staggering up at the moment with a heavy load of firewood, which he threw on the ground.

      The question was put to George, for whom the big German had a special regard, and whose orders he consequently obeyed with unquestioning alacrity, although George had no special right to command.

      “Enough!” exclaimed George, with a look of surprise, “why, zat is not enough to scare a weasel with, much less a elephant or a—a platzicumroggijoo.”

      George was ignorant of South African zoology, and possessed inventive powers.

      “Bring ten times as much,” he added; “we shall have to keep a blazin’ bonfire agoin’ all night.”

      Scholtz re-shouldered his axe, and went off to the jungle with a broad grin on his broader countenance.

      He was a man who did not spare himself, yet of a temperament that kicked at useless labour, and of a size that forbade the idea of compulsion, but George Dally could have led him with a packthread to do anything.

      Before he had reached the jungle, and while the smile was yet on his visage, his blood was curdled and his face elongated by a most appalling yell! It was not exactly a war-whoop, nor was it a cry of pain, though it partook of both, and filled the entire family with horror as they rushed to the tent on the mound from which the cry had issued.

      The yell had been given by Junkie, who had been bitten or stung by something, and who, under the combined influence of surprise, agony, and wrath, had out-Junkied himself in the fervour and ferocity of his indignant protest.

      The poor child was not only horrified, but inconsolable. He wriggled like an eel, and delivered a prolonged howl with intermittent bursts for full half an hour, while his distracted nurse and mother almost tore the garments off his back in their haste to discover the bite or the brute that had done it.

      “It must have bin a serpent!” cried the nurse, agonising over a knotted string.

      “Perhaps a tarantula,” suggested Gertie, who only clasped her hands and looked horrified.

      “Quick!” exclaimed Mrs Brook, breaking the unmanageable tape.

      “Ze chile is growing black and vill bust!” murmured Scholtz in real alarm.

      It did seem as if there were some likelihood of such a catastrophe, for Junkie’s passion and struggles had rendered him blue in the face; but it wes found that the bite or sting, whichever it was, had done little apparent damage, and as the child cried himself out and sobbed himself to sleep in half an hour without either blackening or bursting, the various members of the family were relieved, and resumed their suspended labours.

      The shades of evening had fallen, and, among other orbs of night, the stars of that much too highly complimented constellation, the “Southern Cross,” had for some time illumined the sky before these labours were completed, and the wearied Brook family and household retired to rest, with weapons ready at hand and fires blazing. Wild beasts—to whose cries they were by that time accustomed—soon began their nightly serenade and carried it on till morning, but they were not wild enough to disturb the newcomers with anything more formidable than sound.

      Next morning early, George Dally was the first to bestir himself. On taking a general view of surrounding nature he observed a thin column of smoke rising above the tree-tops in the direction of the stream or river to which reference has already been made.

      “Perhaps it’s Kafirs,” thought George.

      Following up that thought he returned to what we may style his lair—the place where he had spent the night—under a mimosa-bush, and there girded himself with a belt containing a long knife. He further armed himself with a fowling-piece. Thus accoutred he sallied forth with the nonchalant air of a sportsman taking his pleasure. Going down to the stream, and following its course upwards, he quickly came in sight of the camp-fire whose smoke had attracted his attention. A tall man in dishabille was bending over it, coaxing the flame to kindle some rather green wood over which a large iron pot hung from a tripod. The fire was in front of a large, but not deep, cavern, in the recesses of which three slumbering figures were visible.

      Drawing cautiously nearer, George discovered that the man at the fire was John Skyd, and of course jumped to the conclusion that the three slumbering figures were his brothers and friend. These enterprising knights of the quill, having found what they deemed a suitable spot, had selected a cave for their residence, as being at once ready and economical.

      Now, George Dally, being gifted with a reckless as well as humorous disposition, suddenly conceived the idea of perpetrating a practical joke. Perhaps Junkie’s performances on the previous evening suggested it. Flinging his cap on the ground, he ran his fingers through his thick hair until it stood up in wild confusion, and then, deliberately uttering a hideous and quite original war-whoop, he rushed furiously towards the cave.

      The brothers Skyd and company proved themselves equal to the occasion, for they received him at the cavern mouth with the muzzles of four double-barrelled guns, and a stern order to halt!

      Next moment the muzzles were thrown up as they exclaimed in surprise—

      “Why, Dally, is it you?”

      “Didn’t you hear it?” gasped George, supporting himself on the side of the cavern.

      “Hear what?”

      “The war-whoop!”

      “Of course we did—at least we heard a most unearthly yell. What was it?”

      “We’d best go out and see,” cried George, cocking his gun; “if it was Kafirs the sooner we follow them up the better.”

      “Not so, friend George,” said Frank Dobson, in a slightly sarcastic tone. “If it was Kafirs they are far beyond our reach by this time, and if they mean us harm we are safer in our fortress here. My opinion is that we should have our breakfast without delay, and then we shall be in a fit state to face our foes—whether they be men or beasts.”

      Acting on this suggestion, with a laugh, the brothers leaned their guns against the wall of the cavern and set about the preparation of breakfast in good earnest.

      Meanwhile George gravely assented to the wisdom of their decision, and sat down to his morning pipe, while he questioned the brothers as to their intentions.

      They pointed out to him the spot where they thought of commencing agricultural operations and the site of their future dwelling—close, they said, to the cave, because that would be conveniently near the river, which would be handy for both washing, drinking, and boiling purposes.

      “That’s true—wery true,” said George, “but it seems to me you run a risk of bein’ washed away, house and all, if you fix the site so low down, for I’ve heard say there are floods in these parts now and again.”

      “Oh, no fear of that!” said Robert Skyd, who was the quietest of the three brothers; “don’t you see the foundation of our future house is at least ten feet above the highest point to which the river seems to have risen in times past?”

      “Ah, СКАЧАТЬ