anuel! Oh, Oom Emanuel!” was the cry.
“I truly grieve for you, gentlemen,” said the old burgher ten minutes later. “You were such good listeners鈥攜ou had ears for nothing but my story. And because of that I leave you food for a whole day.鏉窞澶滅敓娲荤綉 It will be sufficient, if you march well on foot, to take you to my old friend General Pole. I beg you to give him my compliments. But he will not be in good humour to-morrow. Every one of his patrols within twenty miles has been captured to-night, unless something has gone wrong with De Wet, which is unlikely. Do not be cast down, lieutenant. You were not to blame. Your ears were not trained to the veldt. Good-bye. I invite you to visit me, lieutenant, after this war ends, at my Swartzdorp farm. Then I will tell you the rest of the diamond story.”
“But that is not fair, sir,” said Deschamps, whimsically. “I have interest in de story, and I want to know how she end.”
“It has no end yet.” The old burgher smiled broadly. “I was on my way to end it when you stopped me. I hoped to get through more easily without my burghers’ aid, 鏉窞涓濊鎸夋懇浼氭墍 but I told them to follow if they saw me stopped. You missed us in searching the spruit this morning.
“I have really private business at Swartzdorp. Word was brought to me three days ago that Tante Anna dutifully buried Matakit months ago. Vassell was the Kaffir’s life; I will be his resurrection. A great diamond of the first water is very salable, and the treasury of the republic is running low.”
“But it may not be a diamond of the first water,” said I.
“It must be,
” said the patriarch. “Anything less would be too shabby a mercy to Vassell.”
BOSS OF THE WORLD
About 鏉窞spa浼氭墍鍝釜鏈€濂給ne-tenth of the people in Boston are British Canadians, mostly from the Maritime Provinces, an acquisitive prudent folk who see naught to be gained by correcting casual acquaintances who mistake them for down-east Yankees. Often, indeed, they are descendants of 鏉窞涓嶆瑙勬寜鎽?Hezekiahs and Priscillas who, having been Royalists during the War of Independence, found subsequent emigration to a British country incumbent on their Puritan consciences. These Americans, returned to the ancestral New England after four or five generations of absence, commonly find Boston ways surprisingly congenial, though they continue to cherish pride in British origin, and a decent warmth of regard for fellow natives of the Maritime Provinces. Hence a known Canadian is frequently addressed by an unsuspected one with, “I am from Canada, too.” Having learned this 鏉窞婊ㄦ睙琛楀コ鏈€澶氱殑鍦版柟 from ten years’ experience, I was little surprised when old Adam Bemis, meeting me on the corner of Tremont and Boylston Streets, in May, 1915, stopped and stealthily whispered, “I am from Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.”
“Really! I have always taken you for one of the 瀹跺涵寮忎釜浜轰繚鍋ヨ刀闆嗙綉 prevalent minority, a man from the State of Maine.”
“Most folks do. It doesn’t vex me any more. But I’ve wanted to tell you any time the last ten years.”
“Then, why didn’t you?”
“It’s not my way to hurry. You will understand that well when I explain. I’m needing friendly advice.”
He had ever worn the air of preoccupation during our